


Dances in Darkness - Book 4: Hero

by HigheverRains



Series: Dances In Darkness [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 216,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigheverRains/pseuds/HigheverRains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tears pricked in her eyes. She forced them back with thoughts of Ferelden, of what would happen if they failed to do this now.</p><p>"I'm sure this is the right thing to do," she said, forcing her voice to be strong. Some sacrifices just had to be made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and the group arrive at Haven to find all is not well; Morrigan has a heart to heart with Eideann; Eideann splits their group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.
> 
> If you have not read the previous books, it is recommended you do so. ~HigheverRains

Spring meant the snows were melting, but in the hills there were still pockets of it deep enough that Angus could plow headfirst into them and disappear. No one visited Haven. That much was clear. The paths had been snowed under for an eternity and were no less snow-packed then the rest of the mountainside.

The air was thin, like breathing icicles, and so sharp that Eideann had to pull the fur lining of her Warden cloak up against her nose to ward off the chill. They rode slowly, careful not to founder the horses.

Oghren had taken awhile to figure out the horse. They had a small mule for him, and he had determined he could do it, since it could not be too different from riding a bronto or a giant nug. Eideann did not want to think about people actually trying to do that, so she let him be. He had finally worked out the basics, so she only had to look back every ten minutes or so to make sure he had not fallen off again. That was a vast improvement. 

They were following Leliana, who had the maps and Genitivi’s journal. True to her word, she had made back all their coin and more, singing for their supper. They were well-stocked on supplies, including vegetables, healing supplies, and even a little bit of dried fruit. Eideann had been overjoyed to find such things after so long under the ground eating mostly nug and cave rat or whatever it was the dwarves survived on. And if she ever saw deep mushrooms again it would be too soon.

The Chantry sister had told her about Genitivi’s research into the Urn. He had reported on the story in his book Thedas: Myths and Legends long ago, but had expanded on his musing in the journal, talking about ancient trade paths and the strange Haven which was not located on any conventional map. Presumably it once had been, though Eideann was not sure. The map they had was ancient, perhaps as old as the Imperium itself, and littered with Alamarri runes that suggested Haven was a place few were meant to know about. 

The legend said that when he learned Andraste was to be burned by Tevinter, Havard the Aegis made his way to Minrathous, injured, to stop the execution, but came too late. Her ashes healed him, it was said, and he gathered them into the urn and fled south to the Alamarri lands where Andraste had first been born. Andraste had been from Denerim, but that was overrun by slavers from the Imperium long before, and there were only a few places left that served as bastions of freedom from the Imperium. The Frostbacks were among those, as well as the Korcari Wilds, and thus seemed as good as any place to begin, according to Genitivi.

Whether they could actually find these ashes, Eideann did not know. There had been no further news from Redcliffe, but the last words had been of Arl Eamon’s illness and his knights seeking the Urn of Sacred Ashes to heal him. Eideann had made the decision long ago to accept whatever happened to Arl Eamon. If they found the Urn and could save him, fine. But if he died, she would have to turn instead to Bann Teagan of Rainsfere and hope she could still rally his troops under his son’s name. Connor, from what she could recall, was named for his grandfather, the old Arl of Redcliffe. He was young, the only child of Arl Eamon and his wife the Lady Isolde, an Orlesian noble whose family had ruled in Redcliffe during the Orlesian occupation.

But Connor would be a valuable piece in the war. Loghain was banking on Anora being unchallenged to the throne of Ferelden, as Cailin’s widow and the crowned Queen under his reign. He had decided that Cailin had no heir. 

But the line of succession was not nearly so simple. Maric’s line granted legitimacy, but Maric had married Rowan Guerrin of Redcliffe, sister to Eamon and mother to Cailin. Connor was her nephew, and while she was long gone, Connor could foreseeably still sit the throne. It was one option of many. 

The real issue did of course lie in the fact that as Teyrn of Gwaren, Loghain felt it within his rights to usurp the throne from his own daughter, who had either let him do so or had been too weak to stop him. Either situation was bad enough. Without a Landsmeet to decide the succession, Loghain held Denerim, and he would bow to no lesser noble. Only a Teyrnir could challenge a Teyrnir. Teyrnirs were risen from the ground up, not assigned like Arlings. Teyrnirs were the lifeblood of Ferelden.

And there was only one other Terynir in Ferelden than Gwaren of course.

She had known when she had fled Highever that Arl Rendon Howe had been up to something. She had told Duncan then and there that he would have to be mad to try seizing Highever when Cailin could call him to answer for his treason. There was always a larger plan, and she could see it now, understand it. Loghain’s paranoia against Orlesians, earned or not, had led to mass destruction. And she would have to put the pieces of her homeland back together. 

But finding the Urn of Sacred Ashes seemed unlikely. Eideann had discussed the situation at length with Leliana before deciding they would attempt Haven, and if they came up empty ride for Redcliffe regardless. They did not have much time to waste on such an endeavor, and she had visited the Circle for a mage like Wynne to help with Arl Eamon. If nothing else, good intentions should ingratiate them with the Arlessa, and if Bann Teagan was at Rainsfere he could be summoned as regent in the meantime. She was assuming the worst, but then knowing her luck it would be the worst. After all, they had managed to deal with ancient werewolf curses and travelled into the heart of the darkspawn-owned Dead Trenches and witness the foulness of the Archdemon itself just to get the dwarves and elves to answer the treaty. And at the Circle they had barely averted the disaster of a mage uprising, though Eideann was well aware Loghain had had his hand in that, supporting Uldred and promising freedom in exchange for mage support in the coming war. 

No matter how she thought of it, there were too many coincidences for her to believe Loghain was not involved somehow in Arl Eamon’s illness. She suspected poisoning, or some similar thing, and was not happy to think that Loghain may have removed Arl Eamon from the power struggle. After all, Eamon was a strong proponent of justice, and would side with her as Cailin’s uncle. There was something to be said for his claim as family. And she needed all the help she could get. Bann Teagan certainly also had that claim, though he was far younger than Eamon, born much later – later enough that he had been close friends with Fergus, Cailin, and Anora in their youth. If she had to, she could count on him, but the claim itself would be significantly weakened. 

Maker, what a bloody mess.

And now they were traipsing into the mountains for a village that may or may not even be there.

They were following a frozen river which they had encountered on the way south from Orzammar. It was twisting and winding through the hills, and the ice shifted and cracked, the sounds of it splitting echoing from the hills about them. All else was quiet, save the occasional call of an eagle in the distance, or the howl of the wind in the trees. Where the trees further near the coast were of the kind to drop their leaves in winter, these were mostly firs, covered with snow and swaying in the wind. 

Eideann led her horse up a rise, and then paused, peering into the distance with eyes of Cousland Blue, then looked to Leliana.

“Do you see that?” she asked, pointed, and for a moment the bard said nothing. Then she exhaled.

“It’s a path.” Eideann nodded, her guess confirmed, and looked back to make sure Oghren was still on his horse.

“We’ve found a path,” she called, and Wynne let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness,” she breathed. Eideann nodded, and then pressed on. As they neared the path, set with wooden steps, she dismounted and led her horse on foot up towards what appeared to be a wooden gate. As they climbed, a man appeared at the top, clothed in armor of a strange mottled color, face grim and unreadable. He watched their approach with cold eyes, until at last they drew up to him. And then, one hand on his sword-hilt, he stopped them.

“What are you doing in Haven?” he demanded. “There’s nothing for you here.” Haven was a sad little village set into the slopes of the mountainside. Its houses were in a style old enough to be from the Towers Age or earlier, despite being wood, and their thatch rooves were grey and sunken. 

There was no one about in the village, but signs of footsteps in the slushy snow showed people did in fact live there. Eideann considered all this, then looked to the guard.

“I have business here,” she finally said, and he shook his head.

“No, you don’t,” he replied. “I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor.” Ah so people did occasionally come this way. So there were some truths to Genitivi’s tales after all. But in reality, it made it apparent that this was not the Bannorn. Not by a long shot. There were no lords or ladies to rule there. They were Alamarri as wild as the Chasind or the Avvar, as independent and determined to keep their own as any Fereldan tribe that ever lived. Eideann met his eyes, piercing grey things that bore into her. 

“Is there a Brother Genitivi here?” she asked him directly.

“Who?” the guard asked flatly. “Perhaps Reverend Father Eirik will know of who you speak. But he is ministering to the people at the moment and cannot be disturbed.” That was why the place was so empty then, but it was uncharacteristically devout for a tiny mountain village. Most villagers were too busy to drop everything for a day of prayer. And what was this about a Revered Father.

It confused Leliana as well, because she shifted uncomfortably.

“Revered Father?” she asked, surprised. “I have not heard of this.” The guard turned his piercing gaze on her and looked her over with distaste.

“It has always been thus in Haven,” he insisted. “We do not question tradition.” Having just come from Orzammar, which was strangled by tradition, Eideann felt more than a little uncomfortable with such an answer. She looked at him.

“Are your traditions very different from ours?” she asked cautiously, and the guard scoffed.

“ _Our_ ways are not the ways of the lowland cities,” he declared in disgust. Eideann sighed.

“Very well,” she muttered, “Excuse us.” He let them push past into the village, but his eyes followed her, boring into the back of his head.

“You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish,” he said to their backs, “but then I suggest you and your companions leave.” Alistair, beside her, gave a low whistle.

“Did it just get a lot colder, or is it just me?” he muttered, and Eideann had to agree. The shop was further up the slope, through another wooden archway. Eideann left most of her company to guard their horses and stand watch while she took Leliana, Wynne, and Alistair inside. The man behind the counter was shifty and suspicious. He hesitated before greeting them with a rather rude: “Who are you? You’re not from Haven.” Eideann looked about his shop.

“Why does everyone here tell me that like I don’t know it?” she asked simply. He hesitated again.

“We…don’t get very many visitors,” he muttered in reply. Eideann looked back to catch him watching them intently. His eyes flickered ever so slightly towards the door to his back room. Eideann stood still a moment and listened. She could hear the buzzing of flies, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Can you tell me about Haven?” she asked, proceeding to return to her wandering, though this time she was looking for the source of the infestation. 

“How would you describe the place you know only as home?” the shopkeeper asked her weakly. Eideann looked to him, then nodded to Leliana who moved towards the back room door. “What are you doing? That’s private!” the man said sharply, and Alistair got in his way when he drew a knife. The scent of rotting flesh filled their nostrils from beyond. Eideann stared at the shopkeeper, then shook her head.

“What are you hiding?” she demanded as Alistair escorted him with them into the backroom.

“I don’t see how that is any of your concern!” the shopkeeper spat angrily. Alistair’s sword was at his back now, the knife he had pulled set on the counter in the other room and no use to the man now.

“I am making it my concern,” Eideann said and strode into the depths of the back room. And there she saw a body, Redcliffe armor battered and damaged in a pile against the wall. There was a sound of rats, and flies buzzing about the body. Eideann took one look, then turned on the shopkeeper, drawing Duncan’s knife, and slitting his throat. “This is certainly the right place,” she said coldly as Alistair let the man fall to the floor. “We need to warn the others. I’d bet my life the guard at the gate has alerted someone we are here.”

They need not have worried. The villagers had indeed set upon Sten, Zevran, Shale, Morrigan, and Oghren, but it was not really a fair fight when all was said and done. Sten stood over the body of a mage, cleaved almost entirely in half by his greatsword, and Oghren Morrigan’s spells were still exploding up the mountain slope where the arches announcing the Chantry vanished around a bend. 

After that, Eideann was done being polite. A quick explanation got everyone on the same page, and then Eideann considered the hill.

“The guard did say they were in the Chantry,” she said firmly, and Alistair looked grim. 

“We had better go see what this Revered Father is all about,” he said shortly. 

“Alright, let’s go and see.”

“Interesting strategy.” Sten’s tone was flat, judging, and Eideann glanced back to him with a dark look. “Tell me, do you intend to keep going up until it becomes down and attack the Archdemon from the rear?” He was calling her a coward? She shook her head. “Truly, it would surprise me if my enemy counterattacked by running away and climbing a mountain.”

“We are not running away from anything,” Eideann said simply, staring him down. It was a little difficult because he was looking down on her, and blood was dripping from his sword blade, but she managed it somehow. 

“The Archdemon is our goal,” Sten said angrily. “And we are heading away from it to find the charred remnants of a dead woman.” That was true, and putting it that way certainly explained the Qunari view on the dead. But this was not about the Qunari, and she did not have time for this. She shook her head. “I will not simply follow in your shadow as your run from battle,” Sten said gruffly. Oghren gave a low whistle. Alistair shifted beside her, and she recognized it as defensive. She lay a hand on his arm.

“Get back in line, Sten,” Eideann said in a low, dangerous voice. He grimaced.

“I’m taking command,” he announced, earning a look of surprise from Alistair and a noise of protest from Wynne. Eideann just drew her swords and stared him down.

“Just try it,” she told him fiercely.

She had seen him fight enough by now to know that even with his damaged greatsword he could do some damage. But she was quicker, and knowing how he fought granted her the advantage she needed to get the better of him. She whirled about, sliding under his guard and around his back. Her foot found the small of his back, sending him careening to his knees, and she ended with her blades at the back of his neck, where she bent over him and hissed in his ear, “Yield.”  
He dropped his sword, and she drew back, sheathing her own and stalking away from him, leaving him there.

“I was wrong,” he called. “You are strong enough. What now?” 

“Get back in line, Sten,” she said again and this time he did so, rising and sheathing his blade before following her up the hill. Their other companions looked guarded, but Sten was placated. Eideann made her way towards the Chantry.

There was the sound of singing out on the path before the building. The Chantry itself was built into the mountain, rising tall and forbidding, roughly hewn stone serving as its foundation. 

“These villagers are a remarkably pious bunch,” Wynne said darkly, and Eideann was inclined again to agree. Every single last one of them was there? Why? Even in places as zealous as Denerim, the birthplace of Andraste, there were people who would never set foot in a Chantry, or Andrastians who avoided the places of worship even if they did believe. But every single last Haven villager was here? It was too strange. 

“Just once,” Zevran said, drawing alongside her and considering the building, “I’d like to walk into one of these places and discover a lively dance, or a drinking festival. Or an orgy. But alas, no.” 

“I imagine such excess is even rare in Tevinter these days,” Eideann said simply, and then slowly pushed open the door.

There were no pews in the Chantry. Several rooms branched off on either side of the end of the hall, but the primary chamber was a spectacle indeed. Instead of giving a service as Eideann was familiar with, the Revered Father Eirik had gathered his parishioners about him in a great circle, and was leading the Chant of Light to his rabble. Or he may have been, but it was unlike any version of the Chant Eideann had ever heard. She could not remember in all of the days she had been forced to listen to Mother Mallol preaching hearing the Chant he gave now. 

“We are blessed beyond measure, chosen by the holy and beloved to protect her alone,” he was saying. Eideann listened only a moment, then pushed her way through the crowd, which fell silent at her approach.

“Ah,” Father Eirik said with distaste. “I heard we had a visitor wandering about the village.” He was wearing mage robes, not Chantry vestments, and a staff was at his back. Interesting. Were they an offshoot of the Tevinter Chantry then? “I trust you’ve enjoyed your time in Haven so far?” Eideann narrowed her eyes.

“Enough,” she said darkly. “We’re well past pretending that this village is normal.”

“Perhaps,” he replied equally darkly. “But staying hidden means staying protected. We don’t owe you explanations for our actions. We have a sacred duty. Failure to protect _her_ would be a greater sin. All will be forgiven.” 

There was the sound of people drawing knives, but Eideann had been ready for that. 

_Maker, forgive me for spilling blood in your Chantry,_ she thought before drawing her swords. It did not matter that she was not devout, and did not even know if she believed in a Maker. Some things demanded a little reverence, and Mother Mallol had drilled that much into her over the years. 

The villagers were not well armed, just determined. They cut them down with ease. In fact, more surprising, was the dragonling that was lurking in one of the side rooms, which burst forth at the call of one of the villagers.

“Dragon cult,” Morrigan said flatly when the creature was dead. Eideann shook her head.

“Brilliant. Just what we needed,” she muttered. Leliana was bent over the form of the Revered Father, and when she rose, she had a medallion in her hand. “What is it?” Eideann asked, staring at it. Leliana shook her head.

“A pendant? It…seems to move.” She twisted it a little, and suddenly it sprang open, a small replica of the Chantry sunburst. She considered it a moment, turning it over in her hands, and then carefully looped it over her neck for safekeeping. “I imagine that will be useful.” 

The Chantry was old, ancient perhaps. If Genitivi had been correct, then the Chantry may even have been there since the days of Andraste herself. There was none of the grand Orlesian architecture to it, however. It was purely Ferelden, thick stone and arched supports. Tapestries line the walls, fraying and worn so much they are not even clear any longer. Shelves of books line the front of the Chantry. Eideann stared, then shook her head. It felt more like Soldier’s Peak than a Chantry. Alamarri built then…? 

A quick search of the adjoining rooms revealed a staircase which descended down into the depths of the Chantry. Eideann exchange a glance with Morrigan who then went first, fire flickering in her hand for light. 

It led to a few more chambers and finally a dungeon, where they encountered a few more corpses of Redcliffe knights and one living, injured man. It could not be anyone but Brother Genitivi. He gasped when he saw them, giving a low groan as the light spilled across the chamber into his cell.

“Who are you?” he asked in a weak voice. “They…They’ve sent you to finish it?” Leliana was on her knees picking the lock with practiced hands before he could say anything else.

“I’m Eideann,” Eideann introduced herself, pulling the door open when the tumbler fell and kneeling with Leliana beside him. “We’re here to help you.” 

“You don’t know how glad I am to see someone not from this village,” Genitivi said in relief, but there was pain in his voice. “The leg is not doing well and…and I can’t feel my foot.” 

“Wynne?” Eideann said, looking around. “Can you help?” Wynne joined them in a crouch before the man, examining the injured leg a moment, then sitting back a little.

“I can set the leg and ease some of the pain, but he’ll need a lot of rest to really heal,” she replied. 

“I don’t have time to rest, I’m so close!” Genitivi protested. “The Urn is just up that mountain!”

“How do you know?” Eideann asked, distracting him a little as Leliana and Wynne set his leg. Genitivi cried out, but battled through the pain, answering her question as if his life depended on it.

“My research led me to Haven, and I’ve heard the villagers talk,” he said, a sob in his voice at the pain in his leg. “Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain. There’s an old temple up there.” They had not seen it when they approached, but Eideann could only assume he was telling the truth. He had no reason to lie, after all. “Eirik wears a medallion that opens the temple door. I’ve seen what he does with it.” Eideann glanced to Leliana who held out the medallion about her neck.

“This medallion?” she asked, and Genitivi reached to hold it while she held his leg straight for Wynne to bandage. 

“Yes,” he said excitedly, gritting his teeth. “That is your key. Take me to the mountainside and I will show you.” Eideann sighed, rising. Brother Genitivi was a scholar and Chantry initiate. His work was legendary, publications of places in all corners of the world. Most of his work did not harm and came across as fanciful legend or traveller’s guides. But this…

If the Urn of Sacred Ashes truly did lie in the mountains above, Eideann did not think it wise to let him spread such rumors to the rest of the world. After all, she seriously doubted Fereldan’s Chantry was able to regulate the number of pilgrims who would come seeking the curative properties for all manner of illnesses, and she doubted all the more that Andraste herself – if they really were her ashes at all – would approve of so many people partaking of her remains. They needed to cure Eamon, but they did not believe doing so should make it simple for everyone and their brother to find the ashes, or even that the location should be known at all. But Genitivi _would_ make it known, his crowning achievement, his best tale ever. It did not feel right or sit well with her. Holy places were meant to be sacrosanct, and holy places such as that one at Haven should stay legends, not be home to every farmer with a cold. 

“Are you sure you can make the journey?” she asked softly, trying to dissuade him.

“It is not far. And will you let me lean on you?” he asked. “For the Urn, any pain is worth enduring.” Eideann cannot believe that the man wanted to climb a mountain with a broken leg. Maker’s breath. She decided on a different approach.

“Could you answer some questions for me first?” she asked as Wynne and Leliana helped him from the cell and into a cleaner part of the floor. “Do you know about the knights who were sent to look for you?”

“Yes, of course,” he sighed, avoiding looking at the other cells. “Eirik said they were ambushed. He was so self-righteous about it, so smug. He seemed pleased that he had tortured and murdered these men.”

“Eirik,” Eideann said coldly, “is not going to be bothering anyone else for a long while.”

“Good. Eirik and his fellows were a blemish on the Maker’s sight,” Genitivi muttered bitterly.

“Have is a little…odd, isn’t it?” Eideann asked quietly while Leliana fetched the Brother some water from her bag. Genitivi thanked her and then chuckled softly.

“Well it wasn’t exactly what I expected it to be,” he admitted, then drank.

“Why does Haven have Revered Fathers?”

“I do not know,” he admitted. “It is possible the villagers – the Disciples of Andraste – predate the Chantry, and so have no knowledge of the Chantry’s rules.” He passed the water back to Leliana.

“What do you know about Haven and its people exactly?” Eideann pressed. The Disciples of Andraste? She had never heard of them before.

“They are very, very devoted,” he told them rather unnecessarily. “They must be here to protect the Urn, but they speak of Andraste as though she were still alive.” Eideann pondered that a moment, then drew a breath.

“Is that possible?” she asked. After all of the things she had seen, nothing would surprise her. She could feel something more sinister at work though, something that went deeper, darker. Desire demons, maybe, or worse. 

“I’m old enough to know anything is possible, child,” Genitivi said. Eideann sighed.

“What did they want with you then?”

“They seemed intent on finding out personal information,” he replied, looking concerned. Alistair bent to help him rise, supporting him on his good leg, and then Eideann drew a deep breath.

“They were planning on planting a fake Genitivi,” she finally said, and Zevran made a musing noise. Genitivi looked alarmed.

“How do you know?” Eideann just shook her head.

“Why else capture you alive? How else do they keep their village hidden?” She sighed. Genitivi was influential, and by extension dangerous. Enough people had died to disturb the honored resting place. She was also sure there were more of Haven’s villagers about somewhere. “I think,” she said carefully, “you should return to Denerim. We will go on alone.”

“So close,” he lamented, “and yet so far.” He gazed at her a moment, then gave in, giving a big sigh. “I will return home then. If…if you find the Urn, you will return to Denerim to tell me about it, won’t you?” His voice was hopeful. Eideann did not have the heart to tell him she had no plan of seeing him again after this. Instead, she helped Alistair to get him up the steps to the Chantry, and left him in Wynne’s care in one of the other back rooms. 

Eideann and Leliana set about scouring the rest of the Chantry for anything of use, and in so doing found a back exit that disappeared into tunnels beyond. Eideann considered it, then the medallion about Leliana’s neck and turned away, confident that was the way forward.

“Must we leave him behind?” Leliana asked quietly, and Eideann sighed. “He has travelled far and worked so hard to find the Urn.”

“And been captured, which has led to the deaths of many Redcliffe knights, and would like to spread the news to the corners of the world,” Eideann added. Leliana gave her a determined look, grey eyes soft.

“Should the faithful not be allowed to visit the final resting place of the Prophet?” she asked, and Eideann shook her head.

“How long would she rest peacefully with tourists begging for whatever remains of her? Do you trust the masses of Thedas to behold the Ashes in reverence? It only takes a few fools to destroy everything.” She sighed. “I do not trust those who would abuse it. There are some things, Leliana, that should be left unfound, like the Anvil of the Void.” 

“Have you found anything?” came Alistair’s voice from the doorway. He stood there, watching them, and Eideann smiled.

“The way forward. A path, cut back into the mountain. We can follow it when we’ve had some time to rest.” 

“Do you really think it’s up there?” he asked them, and Eideann shook her head.

“No way to tell but to go and see. But the reaction of these people here at Haven suggest something is up there, and if not the Urn then what? They’re the most pious cult I’ve ever met, and I cannot for the life of me work out where the pieces fit together.” She sighed, leaving the chamber behind and returning to the main Chantry foyer where Wynne was examining the bookshelves and Sten was cleaning his sword at a small table near the door. “The village appears to be empty, but I am certain there are more of these villagers ahead, if there really is a temple up there. We are safe for now though, and this is as good as place as any to make camp.” She glanced to Alistair who nodded and then headed for the door, motioning to Zevran and Sten to help him with their horses. 

Eideann glanced to where Brother Genitivi had been settled into the folds of Wynne’s thick cloak and was sleeping, then she sighed. Morrigan drew close, arms wrapped about herself, and considered the man as well before looked to Eideann.

“He will be a problem,” the Witch said softly, and Eideann nodded.

“I know. But we do not even know if the Urn is up there yet, and neither does he.”

“’Tis a mere relic, nothing more.”

“Perhaps,” Eideann replied, turning away from Genitivi, “but objects have power, are symbols, have meaning to people.” The Shield of Highever, her family sword, Maric’s blade at Soldier’s Peak, the Grey Warden uniform she now wore. 

“Indeed,” Morrigan said with distaste, then turned away with her, walking beside her as they crossed the Chantry foyer. “I recall the first time I crept beyond the edge of the Wilds. I did so in animal form, remaining in the shadows and watching these strange townsfolk from afar. I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I had never before seen. I was dazzled. This, to me, seemed what true wealth and beauty must be.” She shook her head. “I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. ‘Twas encrusted in gold and crystalline gemstones and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds.” Eideann glanced sidelong to her.

“What happened?” she asked softly. Morrigan’s brows knitted a little and she looked away.

“Flemeth was furious with me. I was a child and had not yet come into my full power, and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble,” she said after a moment. “To teach me a lesson, Flemeth took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground. I was heartbroken.”

“But you were just a child,” Eideann said softly, shaking her head.

“And a foolish one.” Morrigan’s voice was hard now. “Flemeth was right to break me of my fascination. Beauty and love are fleeting and have no meaning. Survival has meaning. Power has meaning.” It was a mantra heard so many times it was engrained. Eideann watched her, rainy gaze piercing right to her soul, and she saw the words for what they were. Morrigan met her eyes. “Without those lessons I would not be here today, as difficult as they might have been.”

“They made you stronger, didn’t they?” Eideann said quietly, but her eyes were cool. Morrigan gave a small smile, but there was no mirth behind it. It was a smile of pride, of lessons learn, wistful and wan and forced.

“They did, indeed,” she said simply. But then she sighed. “I find myself at times wondering what might have become of the girl with the beautiful, golden mirror…but such fantasies have no place amidst reality.” 

“First you must survive,” Eideann agreed gently. “And then you must live. Flemeth may have been right to worry, but you were right to desire as well. It is part of our humanity.” She crouched, and Morrigan crossed her arms. Eideann carefully set down her pack and reached inside until she finally found what she was looking for. She pulled out the cloth package, considered it a moment, and then rose, passing it to the Witch. Morrigan stared a moment, and then she finally took it.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A second chance,” Eideann replied quietly. Morrigan gave her a strange look, then opened the package. When the cloth fell away and she was left to gaze at the mirror Eideann had bought in the Orzammar market over a month prior, her eyes were wide. Eideann rose, shouldering her bag again.

The petals of Alistair’s rose were scattered in the bottom, finally dropping from the stem.

“It is…just the same as the mirror which Flemeth smashed on the ground, so long ago,” Morrigan finally said, a little breathless. Eideann drew a breath.

“Objects hold meaning,” she said again, quietly. Morrigan looked up at her with her yellow cat’s eyes and drew a breath, gingerly holding the mirror closer to her chest. 

“I…am uncertain what to say,” the Witch admitted. “You must wish something in return, certainly.” Eideann shook her head. Not this time, not for this.

“No. It is a gift,” she told the Witch, glancing at the mirror, her heart aching as she thought of Oriana so many long months gone now. But the mirror was not just Oriana, it was Morrigan’s lost childhood, permission for them both to grieve. 

“You say that as if I should be accustomed to such a thing,” Morrigan said sharply, looking down at the mirror again. ‘I have…never received a gift, not one which did not come at a price.” The price still hung there between them for Flemeth’s grimoire, but that was a different matter. “I suppose,” Morrigan said weakly, uncertain, as if tenderly probing a path through marshes and cautious of being swallowed hole in the murk, “I should say thank you. For the gift. ‘Tis…most thoughtful, truly.”

The door opened and Alistair, Zevran, and Sten emerged, stomping off their boots, noses red with cold. Alistair paused at the stoop to watch Morrigan and Eideann with a suspicious look, but then he turned away and let it be. Morrigan wrapped the mirror back up again and sighed, fixing Eideann with a look. 

“’Tis a curious thing,” she said frankly, and they began to walk again, pacing across the Chantry foyer and speaking in hushed tones. “I do not know how else to describe it.” Eideann gave her a small smirk, eyebrow arched.

“Oh?” she laughed. “Did you have your first feeling?” Morrigan shot her a look, but she laughed as well.

“That _would_ be rather unlikely, would it not?” the Witch replied. “I am…reminded of our first meeting in the Wilds.” Eideann tilted her head a little to listen, tucking her arms about herself. “I had been in animal form for some time, watching your progress. I was intrigued to see such a formidable woman, obviously more potent than the men she travelled with. Yet I resented it when Flemeth assigned me to travel with you. I assumed that, at best, you would drive me from your company as soon as we left the Wilds.” Eideann’s gaze slide sidelong to the Witch and she shook her head.

“Why would I do that?” she asked simply.

“I am aware,” Morrigan said slowly, “that I have little talent for forming friendships. To put it lightly. ‘Tis something I knew nothing of, nor ever thought I needed.” She appeared a little confused. “Yet when I discovered Flemeth’s plans, you did not abandon me. Whatever your reasons, you fought what must have been a terrible battle without hope of real reward.” Eideann sighed, crossing her arms and looking up towards the cloister with narrowed eyes.

“I did it,” she finally said, “because I am your friend.” And it was the truth. Whatever Morrigan may owe her for the grimoire, she had made the choice to keep her around, she had made the choice to battle Flemeth and get the book rather than cast her aside, because Morrigan was a breath of fresh air at times, the position of logic and self-interest. She was often cold or brusque and had none of the social graces that Eideann had grown up with. Her talent lay in seeing the world for what it was and how it would help. Morrigan was not the sort to question her when her methods were brutal or unclean. And sometimes those were the methods Eideann had to apply. Morrigan had none of the moral trappings of Leliana or Alistair or Wynne, Chantry-raised and educated and believers in the potential for good of all mankind. Such a thing was a luxury Eideann could not afford, not against darkspawn. Morrigan gave her reason to act as she must, not as she would like. 

“And that is what I do not understand,” the Witch said simply. “Of all the things I could have imagined would have resulted when Flemeth told me to go with you, the very last would have been that I would find in you a friend. Perhaps even a sister.” She looked uncomfortable then, and she had to look away. “I want you to know that while I may not always prove… worthy… of your friendship, I will always value it.” She recovered quickly then, changing the topic, uncomfortably with the emotions, but her hands still held the mirror in its cloth tightly and Eideann gave a small smile at that. “Do you realize that you have been smiling for hours now?” Eideann blinked, stopping and turning to look at the woman with a suspicious look.

“Have I?” she asked with a smile.

“Since the last time you and that fool Alistair locked glances, in fact,” she sniffed. “He must be pleasant enough in bed, for surely I cannot imagine anyone enduring his conversation.” Eideann gave a soft laugh, grinning.

“We get along well enough, thank you,” she replied lightly. To her surprise, Morrigan laughed then as well.

“Touchy are we?” she said simply. “Isn’t this what friends are supposed to do?” But then she crinkled her nose. “’Tis a bit sickening to watch you two, but I imagine it helps take your mind from the situation.” Alistair was crossing to join them then, and so she shook her head and pulled back. “Have it your way then,” she said, and left them alone. Alistair quirked a brow and gave her a wondering look, but Eideann just shook her head and came to join them in the small kitchen where the monks would dine. 

It was a simple fare, but thank the Maker it was not nug or deep mushrooms. They sat about, all of them eating in quiet, until at last Oghren grimaced and looked up.

“So who will it be, Warden?” he asked Eideann suddenly, and everyone looked up confused. Eideann just met his gaze.

“Who will what be?” Alistair asked, confused.

“Who is she taking and who is she leaving this time?” Oghren said simply. “She’s been agonizing over it for hours now. Ever since we got here.”

“What?” Alistair’s eyes slid to her and Eideann sighed giving a nod.

“Someone needs to get Genitivi down the mountain to safety where he can find passage home. If we leave him here, he will know if we find the Urn and will only come back. We don’t want him to know,” she at last explained softly, so the man himself could not hear her discussing it. “Morrigan, you said something about dragon cults earlier.” The Witch sighed.

“They believe that dragons are gods, not unlike Tevinter. They may be connected, since we found dragonlings in their care. Whether that means this is a cult or not, I cannot say. But if it is, we can expect further dragonlings ahead. Whoever goes should be aware of this.” Eideann nodded, lacing her fingers together on the table before them.

“So we are to battle dragons again?” Zevran asked huffily. Eideann gave him a small smirk.

“We’re facing a Blight, which is headed by a giant dragon, Zevran. We will always have to battle dragons.” 

“I wish to go,” Leliana said simply, eyes bright. “If it truly is the Urn up there…”

“Fine. And Oghren, I reckon you can hold yourself against a dragon if need be?” The dwarf gave a dirty laugh and then settled back in his seat.

“Sod it, Warden, I’ll fight the thing myself.”

“Wynne will go with Genitivi, to make sure he gets down the mountain. Morrigan, you will go as well. This area is not far from Redcliffe. Perhaps you can learn something? Become a bird perhaps? See if you can find out what is happening to the Hinterlands.” The woman nodded.

“And I?” Shayle muttered. “What shall I do?”

“Sorry, Shayle,” Eideann began, and the golem stiffened.

“You are not planning to ask…”

“We need some way to get him down the mountain. He can’t walk.”

“I will _not_ carry him!” the golem protested. “I do not have to!”

“That’s true,” Eideann said quickly. “You do not have to. But I do ask you to. Please.” 

“Pidgeon crap!” the golem spat, then stormed off, but Eideann took that as affirmation she would do as asked. Eideann looked to the last of them then: Sten and Alistair.

“Alistair, you’re with me. Sten, I’m giving you command of the others until we return. Make for the nearest town to the east. We will meet up with you when we are done.”

“This is foolishness,” the Qunari grumbled. “We should be taking the fight to the Archdemon and leave this Arl Eamon to die if that is his will.”

“That is not _my_ will. A dead Arl does nothing to help us. His son is young, too young, and impressionable. He will be no help in a Landsmeet. And we will need that to win Ferelden’s armies.” The Qunari just glared at her, then sighed. “See if you can find out more about that dwarf…Dwyn. He lives in the Hinterlands. Perhaps you can learn more about your sword.” That seemed to placate him a little, so Eideann nodded. “So be it. We will break camp at dawn. Eideann pulled the documents from her tunic, the Warden treaties, and passed them to Morrigan who was seated nearest to her. “Do not lose these. If we do not come back, you must go to Soldier’s Peak and get them to move against the Blight. And someone must reach Jader.” Morrigan took them with a grim look.

“I understand,” she said simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Enjoy! ~HigheverRains


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and her companions make their way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes; Merrill chances upon an idea; Eideann and her companions face the Guardian of the Urn of Sacred Ashes, where some things should be left unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome. :)

Alistair stirred, carefully uncrossing his arms – stiff from sleep – and peered about the Chantry. Wynne was across the foyer, eating breakfast with Brother Genitivi. Leliana was waxing the strong on her bow with a block of beeswax. 

Eideann was sitting beside him, wiping down the Warden blades. For once he had slept later than her. She noticed him shift and looked up, a small smile on her lips, and blinked, drawing a deep breath.

“Am I the last one up?” 

“Oghren,” Eideann corrected, glancing with a look and a nod towards Alistair’s other side where the dwarf was sprawled with Angus against the wall. Alistair looked over, then sighed, shaking his head.

“Is it late?”

“No,” she replied, looking back to the blades in her hands. “Sten has been making his arrangements to leave, and we will go when they do. I figured we could let Oghren sleep a little longer. At least he isn’t drinking.” 

“No doubt he’ll start that when he wakes up,” he said simply. Eideann just gave him a quiet look.

“After everything, I want to join him myself,” she finally said, looking away. “I know it’s like to see your family dying, to be too late to save most of them, and to commit the rest to death so you may live.” At that Alistair froze, considering the woman beside him, and then he gently reached to kiss her shoulder through the leather and then pushed himself up. He should have realized the real reason she had brought the dwarf along. He was handy in a fight, sure, and he had presumed it was simply Eideann being practical, but there was something between the dwarf and his Teyrna Warden-Commander that went deeper than just practicality. He let her have that then, and rose to adjust his armor and gather his things. 

Wynne crossed to him, and gave him a nod of greeting.

“Be careful up there,” she told him in her motherly voice. “We don’t know what you will find above.”

“Dragon cultists and reavers, most likely,” Morrigan said clearly from where she stood fastening on her cloak. Wynne just shook her head and gave the Witch a flat look before moving on to gather her own things.

Sten came in from outside, Shayle at his side, and the golem gave Eideann a flat look before stomping over to Brother Genitivi. The Chantry Brother, not done staring, simply marveled at Shayle as the golem gathered him up.

“Fascinating! Such artistry! The dwarves really did work wonders! Are you powered with lyrium?”

“May I squish it now?” Shayle demanded, turning to Eideann, who shook her head. Alistair watched as the golem sighed and Brother Genitivi fell silent, alarmed.

“Come. We are losing daylight,” Sten said gruffly to his party, which assembled fairly quickly after that. Eideann bade Morrigan farewell, exchanged a few final words with Sten and then let them go. 

Alistair fastened his cloak and then rolled his shoulders before crossing to Oghren and nudging the dwarf awake. Oghren was up in a moment, roaring, hand on his battleaxe, but then when he saw who it was just gave Alistair a glare.

“What do you want, Warden?” he demanded grumpily, and Alistair smiled a little.

“So many things,” he replied. “But we’re leaving.”

“So, this…Andraste…” Oghren said after he had been given a moment to really wake up. “Who is she?” Alistair blinked, and then remembered that dwarves were not Andrastian, not beholden to the Chantry, and not even considered children of the Maker. He paused, then shrugged.

“Some woman, Bride of the Maker and all that,” he finally replied. He would have made a pretty poor Templar. “She was burned by the Tevinter Imperium’s Archon Hessarian for leading a rebellion of former slaves against the Imperium.” How did one explain all of this to a dwarf? It was not nearly enough to just say Andraste found the Maker, and the Maker turned away when she was betrayed, and none of this has anything to do with dwarves. 

“So…what’s left of a dead woman is going to heal some other important person?” Oghren said with more than a little skepticism.

“That’s the plan,” Alistair sighed. Maker, the more he thought about all this, the more unbelievable it was. Andraste’s remains had probably long since vanished into the winds, but if there was even a chance. 

Arl Eamon had fed and clothed him, and yes he had slept in the stables, but that was after Isolde had married the Arl. Eamon had made sure he was healthy and happy, and seen him educated in the Chantry. How many other bastards got to say the same? He had resented it at the time, but looking back, Arl Eamon had not been unkind to him, though had had every right to be. With his sister dead and her memory dishonored by a boy he kept in his own house…

Alistair shook his head and drew a breath, forcing the thoughts away. They would _not_ let Arl Eamon die. He had waited months, worried for months. Eideann was right in the decision, of course, that Arl Eamon alive was better but not as vital as fulfilling the treaties. They had a duty that must be done. But now…now with their attention turned solely on the politics of Ferelden, the time had come to repay those old debts he owed the man.

He would never have thought in all his wildest dreams that they might actually find the legendary Sacred Ashes. 

Angus was following him around again, and he tried the whistle Eideann had taught him, but the dog just peered at him, then whined, and that was the end of that. No luck there then. He sighed. But then Angus nuzzled up into his hand and Alistair smiled and shook his head.

Eideann and Leliana’s door led down deep into the depths of the mountain. The walls were masonry and brick, like the Chantry, but older, simpler. In some areas, they crossed paths. Eideann beside him looked resolute. Alistair just felt unsettled.

“Didn’t imagine we’d be back underground again so soon,” he muttered, and Oghren gave a dirty chuckle and a laugh. 

“Like being back at home,” the dwarf grinned.

“These tunnels must be ancient? As old as Havard himself perhaps?” Leliana asked, and Eideann shrugged. Alistair felt a little unsettled at the insinuation. How would one man sent south with an urn build so much?

“Older,” Oghren said simply. “Stone round here rivals some of the old Thaigs…been patched up in a few places though.” Leave it to the dwarf to work that one out.

The tunnels eventually let out on a mountain path, overgrowth with wild weeds and brush. Pine trees blocked the view of the mountains. Alistair considered the path, then grimaced. 

“Now where?”

“That way,” Eideann said after a moment, pointing up through a copse of trees. After a moment he saw what she did, a few signs of passage sometime recently. “If people went this way, it’s a fair bet that would be our way to the temple.” 

They crept along the path, or rather did not go quite so loudly since it seemed impossible for Oghren to creep. The path eventually widened into a small trail leading away along the edge of a mountain tarn that glistened in the spring air. The breeze was cool, stiff, and clean, blowing across the surface of the lake and causing the water to ripple under the thin ice. The trees swayed gently and for a moment it was easy to forget that Haven was actually a place full of violent and devout cultists who wanted them dead. 

There was some peace in the world up there, and Alistair thought for a moment that he could understand why the Avvar would worship the father of the mountains and the lady of the skies. Some parts of the Ferelden wilderness leant themselves to the ancient and obscure.

And then, through the trees, they finally got their first glimpse, high up, further up, nestled amidst the peaks where the snow still capped the mountains. It was massive, and it looked like nothing Alistair had ever seen before.

Well, no…it did look like something…there was something familiar about it. But all the same, he could not immediately place it, and so he just settled for a low whistle of amazement.

Angus beside him tipped his head and the ex-Templar stared a moment, then gave a soft laugh.

“It’s incredible!” Leliana said. 

“That is not Tevinter,” Eideann said softly. “Or Alamarri.” But she was staring as awed as the rest of them.

Vast archways and great pillars rose above a grand core building, once again twisted and embedded in the heart of the mountain. Alistair drew a deep breath.

“Well, shall we go and see if it’s there?” he finally asked. Leliana looked and nodded. Eideann moved forward.

The steps that led up to the main ruin were battered and worn by age. They were intricately carved once, but some of the carvings had been worn away by time and weather until they were almost sloped. They climbed them to a set of massive, arched doors, where Leliana drew the medallion forth. 

There was an indent to the right of the door, somewhere beneath the icicles that had formed under the eaves and were too thick to melt. Leliana manipulated the pendant until it clicked, forming a shape like the Chantry sunburst, and then she fitted it gently into the mechanism. 

The locks slid back as she twisted the medallion and then the doors gave a heavy boom. Alistair put his hand on the first door, drawing her sword, and pushed.

They swung inward.

The chamber was half-filled with snow, giant icicles forming on the ceiling. Part of the wall had collapsed under the weight of the ages.

But the whole room glittered. Firelight was shining from massive bonfires that the Disciples of Andraste had set aflame about the hall. But the cultists themselves were nowhere to be seen. 

The ceiling arched high overhead, vaulted and ornate and so high that he had to crane his neck to see how high it went. A stillborn chill hung in the air. Eideann motioned to Alistair and together they moved up the steps, weapons ready.

The first of the cultists were cloistered in a chamber with pews and a few more of their Revered Fathers, which were all of them mages. Alistair pushed aside the sense of irony that he was more a Templar now than he ever would have been as a real Templar, and immediately moved to smother their magic. Leliana’s arrows found their marks, and Oghren, naturally resistant to magic due to his dwarven genetics, went flying in before Alistair could even get there. Maker, that dwarf was quick. Angus went tearing after him, and finally the room fell silent as the cultists were finished off to a man. A few were only villagers like Haven, unarmed or bearing only knives. Alistair turned away, a ripple of anger in his heart.

They were Wardens. They were meant to protect people, not kill them.

He sighed. 

“Look at this,” Eideann said softly, motioning for them to come and join them. She was standing in the door way of a chamber that was buried back into the heart of the mountain. Within, a large fireplace roared, and tables and shelves stacked high with books lay amidst piles of snow. The firelight flickered off the icicles that hung heavy and thick from the ceiling. 

“Old books,” Alistair said, surprised. How old? “You think any of those might still be readable?” Surely the snow would have waterlogged the pages by now?

Eideann bent and lifted a small book, pages down, from a snow bank. She peered at it a moment and he looked to her. Her eyes slipped to his and then she closed the book carefully, tucking it inside her tunic. 

“Light reading?” he asked pointedly. She shook her head.

“The musings of good Sister Mary to settle me down before bedtime I suppose,” she replied lightly, but there was more to it than that. 

“I can’t believe this is all still standing,” Leliana said, breaking the momentary tension between them. “This temple must be _thousands_ of years old.” Alistair turned, sighing, and twisted his sword into a better grip in his hand. 

“We should move on.” Arl Eamon needed them.

The rest of the temple was a strange mix of mosaics and stone, statues of Andraste, her husband betrayer Maferath, and Archon Hessarian. It was strange being in the middle of all the religious icons and at the same time beset by this cult. 

The temple wound up higher and higher until it finally twisted into more tunnels. But these were not tunnels built by old architects. They were cut into the stone, carved out, much like the mining tunnels down in Orzammar. And that made him instantly uncomfortable.

And it was there they found more of the dragonlings, and the larger drakes, amidst cages of livestock. The cultists were not deterred by them, meaning more handlers and not just civilians. All the same, the dragonlings died, though by the time they had managed to clear the first chamber, Alistair and the others all had a fair share of burns and claw marks, excepting Leliana who had managed to keep her distance as she peppered the handlers with arrows. 

The drakes were harder to deal with. They had hard scales that blocked sword thrusts. But he had slain a dragon before, and Eideann and Oghren were unafraid. Eideann’s blades whirled in arcs. He always had admired that skill. That was how he had known her first, by reputation, like much of Ferelden, the Blue Flame of Highever. Long before her resolute nature, her softly sensitive side when she believed no one else could see, and her ability to take charge whenever she needed to, there was this. 

When they were done, they looked about, Leliana checking the cultists for anything that might be useful while giving the dragons a wide berth. Eideann did no such thing. She crouched to examine the nearest drake and Alistair came to join her, watching her carefully.

“What?” he asked her, and she sighed.

“Do you think it was really a dragon?” He let out a slow breath, turning away. Maker, he had no idea. He did not even want to think of it. That creature terrified him. If anyone else could fight it…

“I don’t know, Eideann.” She just nodded, then looked about the chamber. Eggs were resting in stands and piles, carefully cared for and minded, nestled in the nest. “If there are eggs, there must be a bigger dragon here though. Let’s focus on that for now.”

“It cannot get into these tunnels, but I imagine it will be further up. The cultists must bring the eggs here.”

“Do we leave them or smash them?” Leliana asked slowly, and Eideann shook her head.

“Leave them. Eggs are not a danger. Live dragons are my concern.”

The path curved around from there, and it felt for awhile they were backtracking through the tunnels. It was eerily quiet, so Eideann led them carefully, cautiously.

“Why are these cultists so obsessed with dragons? What is a dragon cult anyway?” Alistair asked quietly. Leliana, beside him with an arrow nocked, looked confused, but finally she spoke.

“They worship dragons. It is said they are reavers. There are not meant to be any dragon cults left.”

“Reavers? Why does not sound good?” Alistair asked grimly.

“It’s blood magic,” Eideann said frankly from a few steps ahead. “That’s why it doesn’t sound good.” She glanced back at him with her fierce eyes and fixed him with a look. “They drank the blood of dragons, because they believe that dragons are gods.” Alistair felt a chill, thinking of the Joining cup and the Archdemon blood that went into it. 

“We’re reavers,” he said softly, looking at her. She nodded.

“Something like that,” she muttered, and then turned back. “The only thing I don’t understand is why a dragon cult is calling itself the Disciples of Andraste and worshipping in a Chantry.”

They came to a turn in the tunnels, and they crept forward, careful. It opened up into a wide cavern then, some of the walls lined with the stonework of the temple again. The stalactites were dripping softly, but those tunnels seemed warmer, felt warmer. 

And in the center of the chamber, a group of cultists in heavy armor stood, waiting for them. 

“Stop!” the man at their fore said, cold eyes and sharp beard pointing at them in a way that would be comical if not for the massive battleaxe over his shoulder and his cultist friends. “You will go no further!” 

“You’ll stand aside if you wish to live,” Eideann called to him, crossing to stand before him. Alistair had a wave of nervousness and eyed up the other cultists. A few mages and a couple warriors. Leliana was already surveying the man’s archers.

“The righteous do not fear death!” the man exclaimed. “You have defiled or temple, spilled the blood of the faithful, and slaughtered our young!” Maker, they meant the dragons, not the villagers. “No more! You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this! Why have you come here?!” His voice echoed across the chamber. 

How many people had died to protect this secret, and here were a bunch of people crazy enough to believe themselves chosen because they had gone about drinking the blood of dragons. Maker’s breath, how did they end up in such situations? He thought of Arl Eamon, of the Urn and all the knights killed to retrieve it, and gritted his teeth. 

_Please, Eideann, no games this time._ Perhaps it was disingenuous to hope she would hear his silent plea.

But somehow she died, either because she herself was impatient with these cultists or because she had decided she did not like dealing with the priest before them, because Maker’s Mercy she shook her head.

“I’ve come to make sure you never hurt anyone again.” Fine answer. It meant coming to blows, but Alistair was ready for that. When he felt the first trickle of magic, he went straight for the mages, knocking one from his feet with his shield and smiting the other before Leliana’s arrow found its mark in his throat. The warriors were in thick armor, and when they clashed, Alistair felt the pain of it. The worst of the lot was that man who led them, armed in silverite armor of all things, and swinging that axe like he was willing to cut through walls to reach them. 

Oghren did not give him the chance. The dwarf proved his prowess again and parried the man’s blows, swinging hard and fast, and one battleaxe met the other and the cultist finally fell. 

There was a roar from somewhere above them, beyond, and Alistair looked about, a sense of trepidation creeping over him. He had heard a roar like that before.

“The dragon?” he asked, and Eideann – the only other one who had seen Flemeth in that form – shook her head.

“We will find out soon enough,” she said quietly. And then they proceeded up. 

***

Oooh, she hated the sea. It was rocky and wavy and hard to stand still on. She wished for cool grass under her feet and the smells of the forest. All she had now was a constant threatening illness that even a liberal application of spindleweed and elfroot could not settle. 

The Keeper had said that they should think of the sea like they thought of the fields, long and rolling plains of grass. But Merrill had always preferred the lush green forests of Ferelden, and the feel of soil between her toes. The _Pride of Amaranthine_ was made of wood, but the wood was dead.

Their aravels were crammed into the hold of the barge, the sailors called? The sailors avoided them mostly, and the halla, but they whispered above-decks their stories about Dalish stealing children. It made Merrill uncomfortable, because she was an apostate among their kind, and had to continually visit the upper decks to lean over the rails to tend to her sickness. They watched her with wariness and fear. 

But she was no warrior, following the Vir Tanadhal. She knew many things about ancient spells, and she walked the Fade with other Keepers. But as Marethari’s First, she was always a bit separate from the others. She did not feel the protection of the clan, and that was why she missed the forests. At least there, the land itself gave her safe harbor.

The reason for it was of course her luggage. After Tamlen and Mahariel had disappeared, when she had gone with Fenarel to find them, and discovered the Grey Warden Duncan at some mysterious ruins within the old forest. It had been full of elven artifacts, but the Grey Warden had also said it had been tainted by the darkspawn. 

The source of the disappearance was a mirror, an ancient Eluvian, which Duncan had shattered to save them from any other taint. But there must be a way to cleanse it, to see it put to rights. That heritage was important. 

She kept a shard of it in her pocket, and she had begun constructing a frame to put the pieces she had collected back together. The original stone had been too heavy to move, part of the chamber itself. 

It had made her more of a Pariah than ever. The Keeper had openly expressed her reservations at the mirror, since it had presumably taken two of their clan. But Merrill knew…she just knew…she had to fix it. There was a bigger piece there, something more. She had gone through every book she could in the Keeper’s araval trying to find more about the Eluvian. But nothing. She could not find enough power or even the method to undo the damage. Even the spirits of Wisdom that wandered the Fade were vague on the subject, and she could hardly reach them at all where she was on the boat. Maker, she had only entered the Fade once, in a quiet corner where she had a little time and knew she would be safe, and all she had seen was the wide expanse of the roiling sea, and her on a tiny island in the middle, trapped. It had been so disconcerting she had dared not try again.

Their destination was Sundermount, an ancient burial ground and sacred site of the Dalish of old, where the ancestors had once met Tevinter in battle. Merrill was a little excited, because the last time she had been outside Ferelden was with her birth-clan, the Alerion Clan, away to the west in Nevarra. But she was also a little homesick, not just seasick. She longed for the Ferelden wildflowers, the touch of the wind in her hair.

And she wanted the days before all of this had happened, when Mahariel’s quick wit and Tamlen’s fire had brought joy and life to their clan, where Keeper Marethari was not afraid of the old ways and the pursuit of knowledge, and where they were not on a boat in the middle of the sea. Elgar’nan! She hated the sea.

 _Mythal came from the sea,_ she schooled herself to calm. _The Great Protector came from here. She will not let you drown._ And for a moment she was calmer. And then she was sick over the rails again.

She wiped her mouth and stepped back, sinking into a crouch and closing her eyes. It made her feel only marginally better, so instead she moved to take her mind off everything by pulling the shard from her pocket. 

She reached to take hold of it and felt a sharp pain as she did so. Drawing her hand back hurriedly, she realized she had cut herself on the edges, and she hissed a little through her teeth before applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Her piece, she had checked, did not appear to carry the tainted sickness that the Grey Warden had said was the Blight, but all the same she was worried. She examined the injury, then checked no one was watching before gently using some of her magic to make sure it was alright. It was, so she bound the injury with a strip of bandages from her pouch, and then sighed, staring at the blood soaking into the cloth.

And it dawned on her then. She knew what she needed to fix it. 

But not there. She could not learn there. The ship was too small, too crowded. She needed space, and to be safe from the prying eyes of those who would call her apostate. 

She rose and hurried down the steps, making her way through the clan that was sitting or lying about, some ill, some tired, some bored, amidst the aravels. Maren was there too near the back, tending to the halla which looked depressed. The halla keeper looked concerned, but she had already refused Merrill’s aid, and Merrill actually knew very little about the halla herself.

By the Dead Wolf, she would be a terrible Keeper. 

She finally came upon Marethari’s aravel, and ducked inside through the tent flaps to find the Keeper was indeed out among the others somewhere. She hurried to a chest where Marethari kept the old books and used her key as First to unlock it. 

The books were scattered fragments, all that remained to the Dalish now, though some were newer and written by those seeking to reclaim their lost history. Many they could not read at all, the language long since lost. And each and every one was fragile.

Merrill carefully went through the pages until at last she found the history of Sundermount she had been searching for, and there she found at last what she was looking for. It was a worn and weathered page, so old it was nearly translucent, the ink faded to brown.

And there she read the name that would change everything forever: 

Audacity.

***

Eideann peered down into the shallow crater before them. It smelled of sulfur and brimstone. And at the far end is another temple, a smaller one, set into the heart of the mountain itself. 

It was warm considering the snows on the mountain below them, and she attributed that to volcanic pockets. It made her think of the Deep Roads and she wondered if she was doomed to forever remember those toxic kingdoms lost to the darkspawn and corrupted by arrogance and greed. 

She stepped carefully, descending a small ramp that led out onto a field of sulfur and ash, and grimaced. 

“If this Urn is here,” she grumbled, “the ashes could just be these right here.” She kicked at the ashy deposits on the ground a little and then sighed. 

And then gave a sharp hiss as Alistair pulled her down behind a felled column. A great roar split the stillness of the mountain, and there was the feeling of air rushing past them as the High Dragon they had been ominously projecting finally showed itself. It soared overhead, and Eideann, heart pounding, twisted to stare at it. No one moved for a moment.

“I think we just met Andraste,” Eideann finally said with distaste. 

“What do we do?” Alistair asked. “A High Dragon is not a joke. We’d best be careful…real careful.”

“Wait til the boys at Tapster’s hear about this,” Oghren grinned, and Eideann shook her head. 

“I don’t know,” Leliana admitted. “You fought a dragon before.”

“Well, we fought a woman who turned into a dragon at last,” Alistair clarified. I don’t know if that really counts.

“Of course it does.” Eideann settled back. “Let’s be realistic here. We could spend the time to kill this dragon and then move forward. It would be good practice against the Archdemon, but we might suffer some injury because of it.” She remembered Zevran and Alistair taking some nasty burns and sighed. “Or we can try and sneak by. If we can, we will have to sneak back as well. But that means the dragon stays, and in the future the Urn is protected from those who might come looking for it.”

“Assuming the Urn exists, and assuming the Urn actually has Andraste’s ashes and not these ones out here,” Alistair added quietly.

“We kill it, Warden, and we’ll be heroes.” 

“Or we will die trying to kill it,” Eideann added, her hand finding Angus’s collar beside her in case he tried to bolt. He was growling low in his throat at the nearby threat. “We sneak in,” she finally decided. “We cannot afford to get into trouble with Wynne missing and so many lives on the line.” She met Alistair’s eyes and he nodded, then motioned her onward.

Her low hush calmed Angus, who then plodded beside her in silence, low and tense. Eideann crept out across the field of ash. The dragon was above, nesting atop a cliff face that overlooked the valley. Its tail swung back and forth down into their path. Eideann navigated the field with the same sort of caution as when she was tracking harts in the Coastlands, quiet and careful and easing into the steps. 

Oghren was of course the loud one, but even he managed to quiet it down, and the ash helped to silence their footsteps.

The other temple was much smaller, built in the same architecture, but it felt more like a tomb than the giant halls from before. The door was the same, though not locked, and all the markings seemed to suggest that the chambers wereas old as the other temple, if not older. 

“What is this place?” Alistair asked as he slid the door shut beside them and they were hidden from the dragon’s reach. “It’s different from the rest of the ruins.” But she was not sure how. Angus gave a low bark, and Eideann looked about.

“Different how?” she asked. It had the same sort of mosaics, and it was littered with statues of Andraste, but there was a strange something to the place. The air felt…unreal.

“Magical,” Alistair said after a moment. “And…strange.”

“Like a spell?” Alistair shook his head.

“Older, deeper. The Fade itself maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a mage.” Eideann considered a moment, and then nodded. 

“Alright, then let’s be careful,” she decided, and took the steps upward. 

They found themselves in a small chamber before a great door where fires glowed in sconces and bathed the room in light. Who kept them lit? How were they fueled? If the cultists believed Andraste was the Dragon, they would not care for the ashes, would they? But however grand the chamber was, it was also very old. In places the floor tiles had been peeled up, and beneath were more mosaics. Eideann considered it all, then turned her gaze towards the door.

And there stood before it was a man, watching them with the quiet gaze of one who had seen many years. His armor was ancient, a style that had not been seen for centuries, and he wore a helmet that obscured most of his features. 

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” he said and Eideann slid her swords into her sheaths and crossed to him. 

“Who are you?” she asked quietly, and he gave her a small smile, meeting her gaze gently, like one would explain to a child.

“I am the Guardian, the Protector of the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” he said kindly. “I have waited years for this.”

“For someone to take the Ashes?” Eideann asked, surprised. Why, if he was meant to be a guardian, would he wait for someone to take them? It did not make sense. The guardian just smiled his non-smile and shook his head.

“No one can take the Ashes,” he said. “They belong here. It has been my duty to protect the Urn. For years I have been here, and so I shall remain, until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.” Eideann narrowed her gaze a little.

“The Imperium is no longer as powerful as it once was,” she told him. He smiled wider.

“Ah, is it not? Then perhaps _this_ is the beginning of the end.” He had an odd echo to his voice, like the voice of the demons in the Circle Tower, but softer, gentler, not…off-key? So this was a spirit then? But how was it taking form? How had it lasted there for so long? It was not a demon. But it was not from their world either. 

Were they in the Fade? She shook her head. 

If they were, how had they managed to end up there? She did not remember falling asleep.

“Who are the men who have taken over the rest of the temple?” Eideann asked him, testing her theory. If he knew of them, he was aware of that world, they could not be in the Fade. Maybe. 

“When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to revere and guard her. I watched generations of my friend’s kin take up the mantle. But now they have lost their way.” He saddened. “They had forgotten Andraste, and their promise.” Eideann peered at him, shaking her head. If they carried Andraste there, the Urn really was real and beyond, so it could not be the Fade, and yet he had lived there all this time? He was not human, that much was obvious. She did not believe in miracles. Even the Chantry did not believe in miracles. And another thing was odd. He said they had carried Andraste to the sanctuary, meaning the sanctuary was there before. She thought of those mosaics under the flagstones, of the odd carvings and strange statues and paintings, and bit her lower lip.

“In a sense,” she finally said, “they haven’t forgotten Her.” They had just become a dragon cult and decided Andraste was actually a dragon.

“They have forgotten,” the spirit guardian explained patiently, “that Andraste was just a messenger. They speak no more of the Maker, only of their false Andraste, an even greater sin.” Eideann sighed.

“Why have they fallen for this ridiculous lie?” she asked. She could not even begin to understand how they imagined Andraste had been reborn into a dragon, which had been deemed dead for ages. Once again, Eideann was glad she had sent Genitivi away. This was the sort of thing that should not be written down. Ever. The guardian just sighed wearily.

“It began with an ancestor of the one known as Kolgrim. He saw himself as a new prophet, preaching the rebirth. Some disagreed with him. I heard their cries of pain and loss, which were quickly silenced.” Eideann was suddenly much happier that she had made such a quick end to the whole cult then, if they tortured their own for doubting. She drew herself up a little, then fixed him with a look, back to the task at hand.

“I would like to see the Urn,” she told him. He raised his chin a little, considering her.

“You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, _if_ you prove yourself worthy.” At least there were some defenses then, aside from a High Dragon perched over the door, but at the same time they made Eideann very concerned. She was no Chantry sister. The one she had with her was apocryphal in her beliefs and a bard. Alistair may be useful, with Templar training, but he had hated his time at the Chantry. And Oghren still did not even really know who Andraste was. Maker’s breath. How could they ever be worthy, they four as they were.

“What if I am not worthy?” she asked hesitantly. Death was the usual expected result of course, or some other trouble. It felt like Mother Mallol scolding her over verses again or some such. But the guardian just smiled and said his reply in his calming voice.

“Then you will not come to the Ashes. It is not my place to prove your worthiness; the Gauntlet does that.” Good, death it was then. Brilliant. But that was better, because tests she had proven good at puzzling out before. She could manage tests. “If you are found worthy,” the guardian continued, “you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…” Eideann nodded quickly. It was still a dangerous gauntlet, which she supposed proved that the Maker himself just like to see people suffer for little reward.

But the Ashes were there, and the Guardian had as much as said they would heal and she could take some. That was what they needed. Ferelden could live or die by those ashes in the months to come. She could not turn back.

“All right,” she said, making up her mind. Her voice sounded the same flat tone as when she had agreed to the Joining, and she grimaced. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Before you go,” the Guardian said softly, eyeing her up, “there is something I must ask.” Eideann felt herself go on guard, but she looked to the door, then him, and gave a nod. The guardian turned to gaze at her, the weight of judgment falling on her soul, and Eideann swallowed. “I see that the path that lead you here has been one of suffering, your own suffering and the suffering of others.” She thought of Crestwood, of Branka, of the Circle Tower, of the elves that had died of the werewolf curse while she was determined to save all of them and delayed, the nameless people felled by her hand. And she thought also of Ostagar, the dark cloud that had begun that fateful night in Highever so long ago now and grown into a raging Storm by the time the battle was done. She gritted her teeth, feeling the tension in her. The Guardian’s eyes were staring deep into her soul.

“You abandoned your father and mother, leaving them in the hands of Rendon Howe, knowing he would show no mercy.” Eideann felt her heart seize a little with pain at the accusation. She glared back, hatred rising like a coiled snake unfurling within her, and forced herself to breathe. “Do you think you failed your parents?” 

She stood there before Alistair, Leliana, and Oghren, and she could not answer, unable to breathe any longer. She thought about lying, but knew he would know the truth of it in her eyes. He knew her answer already. That was why he had asked the question.

Tears came unbidden to her eyes and she drew a shaking breath.

And then after a few more pounding heartbeats, she raised her chin.

“Yes,” she said in a quiet, strained voice, feeling the raw emotion burning her throat and stinging her eyes. “I should have defended them to the death.” 

“Thank you,” the Guardian said quietly. “That is all I wish to know.” The tension drained from her as his gaze turned away, but she felt like something was shattered inside. This was the Gauntlet then, a true test of heart and soul. She hated it.

“You are too hard on yourself. No one’s perfect,” she heard Alistair said softly, but she did not turn to him. No. She was not too hard. She had left them there, when she should have fought. She had gone with Duncan, and left them to die. And they had died. And now none stood against Loghain. This was why they had come to the Gauntlet in the first place. Had she murdered Rendon Howe, her retribution would have been swift and firm, and all this would be over. To battle Loghain, she _needed_ to be perfect, or as close to perfect as she could be. She had sworn to the King she would see justice done. She had sworn to Duncan she would end the Blight. She could not afford to be less than perfect now.

 _Think…you cannot change the past._

_Become a Grey Warden, darling, and do what is right!_ Her mother’s words rang in her ears and she drew a breath, forcing away tears angrily, and looked up.

The Guardian was not done. He had turned now to consider the others, and his eyes fixed on Alistair, who seemed to shrink slightly under his gaze.

“And what of those that follow you?” the Guardian said in a low voice. “Alistair, knight and Warden…you wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you, if you should have died, and not him?” This was an old hurt, one Eideann already knew, but to see the way Alistair faced the man down then made her ache with pride.

“Yes. If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything _would_ be better. If I’d just had the chance, maybe…” And then his amber eyes hardened. “Things are as they are, now. We cannot look back, and it dishonors his memory to do so.” The Guardian let him be then, and his eyes slid to Leliana next.

“And you…why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?”

“I never said that!” Leliana replied roughly. “I - !”

“In Orlais, you were _someone_. In Lothering, you feared you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear,” the Guardian said, eyes boring into Leliana now. The bard gritted her teeth. “When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative.” Eideann did not look to the sister beside her. 

“You’re saying I made it up, for…for the attention? I did not! I know what I believe!” Leliana spat angrily, and Eideann sighed softly. There…the presence of her convictions. 

And then the Guardian looked to Oghren, eyes sinking to the dwarf’s height.

“Ah, dwarf. You left your home and came to the surface, knowing that – “ Oghren cut him off there with an angry scoff.

“Why don’t I save you some time?” he said gruffly. “Yes, I wish I could have saved my family from Branka. I wish I’d been a better mate; maybe she’d have stayed home with a bellyful of baby Oghren and never gone for the Anvil. Maybe _I_ failed her. And yes, I came to the surface because I’m barely a dwarf anymore. My family is dead, my honor as a warrior long gone. I’ve lost my caste and my house and I have nothing else to lose.” Eideann did look to Oghren, who stared back at her then, and she gave him a nod. Those were words she understood as well. 

_Nothing left to lose._

The Guardian looked over them all then, and finally gave a small smile.

“The way is open,” he said. “Good luck, and may you find what you seek.” And then he faded away to nothing, and the Gauntlet door swung open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the descriptions of the Temple and Haven:
> 
> If there are changes you notice in the descriptions of the Temple and Haven it is because I am trying to keep a consistent setting through all Books. I made a choice to correlate the descriptions of the Temple and Haven (including the Chantry) with the versions we see in Inquisition, as these will be important later. This means there are mosaics and murals at the Temple of Sacred Ashes (seen during the fight with Corypheus in game), and the Chantry does have a prison underneath (where the Inquisitor first sits) and a door at the back of the original war-room which the Haven villagers and Inquisition forces use to escape when Haven is attacked. Also, the tunnels where the Inquistor ends up after the battle at Haven do lead out to the middle of nowhere on the slopes, so I shifted that a little so it would also lead up to the Temple.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann, Oghren, Alistair, and Leliana face the Gauntlet; Eideann is forced to face the ghosts of the past; Oghren and Eideann have a heart-to-heart over some Chasind sack mead; Eideann realizes how deep her feelings for Alistair really go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Sex 
> 
> For once, no violence warning.
> 
> Comments always welcome. :)

“What is this?” Eideann glanced to Oghren who was staring about the chamber with distaste. Spirits lingered there, waiting and watching, wearing the faces of long-dead men and women. Eideann too felt a sense of unease.

She was not sure how, but she was almost certain they were in the Fade now. Such spirits should not hold such forms in the real world, and while they had not slipped into sleep, she felt like the world could change and shift at any moment. Something was different, was off. She wished for the first time she was a mage so she would at least be able to tell, to see it through the eyes of the arcane. But this…no, she would do what she could now, here, and hope for the best.

“Come, pilgrim,” the nearest spirit beckoned, waving her to them. It was a woman with soft eyes who smiled slightly at them. Eideann approached with some hesitation, not sure yet what this test was.

“Who are you?” The woman just smiled, then looked between them all.

“Echoes from a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thoughts strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?”

“We asked you a question!” Oghren snapped angrily, still irritated from his diatribe at the door with the Guardian. Eideann glanced to him a moment, then to the spirit, who was sitting and waiting for them to say something.

“If we answer, you will tell us?” she asked, and the spirit just smiled, so she took that as a yes.

Riddles. Of course it was riddles. She closed her eyes and thought back to the last time she had ever done riddles. 

It had been the depths of winter, when the year finally died and the new one arrived, First Day, and her mother had invited half the noble families of the kingdom to stay with them. Even King Maric had come with his son Prince Cailin to usher in the new sun. While the Arl of Redcliffe was not there, spending the winter in the much warmer Redcliffe where his wife was ill, Teagan Guerrin was, and so Fergus was running wild, of course. The Arl of South Reach, Leonas Bryland was in attendance, with his five year old Habren who was as spoiled as possible, and his wife from the Free Marches. And the Howes had been there, of course, Thomas the youngest still in swaddling clothes, and Delilah nearing ten, starting to pay attention to boys and so very shy suddenly around Fergus, and Nathaniel who was a brooding sixteen year old who made her nervous.

Eideann remembered sitting, curled in her father’s armchair before the fire in the study, reading a book about dragons and doing her best to hide from everyone else, when Fergus and Prince Cailin and Teagan had come in looking for some place to hide from Nan.

“He’s a bastard, what do I care?” Cailin was saying and Eideann remembered it because she did not know what the word meant. Teagan had hushed him, a look on his face, but Cailin had smiled and shook his head. “Won’t they send him to the Chantry soon anyway like they do all the other bastards?” And then they had seen her. 

Angus was in her lap under the book, a new puppy fast asleep and keeping her warm against the deep snows, and Fergus had come forward to scruff his ears. Angus had lapped at him with his tongue. He always had liked Fergus.

“Pup!” her brother had announced, sitting on the carpet by the fire. “Go away and leave us alone. Let the Prince sit down.”

“I was here first!” she had protested. 

“Let her stay, she’s doing no harm. There’s another chair for Cailin.” It had been the patient Teagan, a little older than Fergus and Cailin, who had spoken and convinced them to leave her be. He coaxed Cailin into a chair and then leaned against the hearth.

“Well, we can’t play knights in here,” Cailin had announced. “What else shall we do?” As if the whole world was there to serve him. Wasn’t it? She had not thought so at the time.

“Riddles?” Fergus had suggested, because Alduous had been teaching him some and he thought they were brilliant and wanted to do more. “Eideann can play too.” Cailin had looked at her, then taken the other armchair and mused over it. 

Maker…how long ago had it been? So many years. A young girl, barely seven at the time. Fergus had been twelve, as had Cailin, and Teagan almost fourteen. 

She sighed.

What was thought’s strange sister in the night? Dreams, or nightmares, the twisted domain of the Fade and the Archdemon. She looked to the spirit before her and wet her lips before giving her answer.

And the spirit eased, smiling and giving a soft nod.

“A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and of her betrayal and death.” It dawned on Eideann then who they were. “I am sorry and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save.” She bowed her head and vanished, and Eideann turned to her companions.

“These are people from Andraste’s life,” she told the others, looking about. “Each one important in her story.”

“And I slept through those lessons,” Alistair muttered sarcastically. 

“Are they all gonna talk funny?” Oghren grumbled, and Eideann nodded.

“Yes, I am afraid so.” 

“What happens if we answer a riddle wrong?” Leliana asked after a moment of pondering the implications. Eideann had wondered as well and did not like the answer she came to. The last time she had gotten a riddle wrong, Cailin had tried to make her go out barefoot into the snows as penalty. When she had refused he had become petulant and insisted, as her Prince, he do so, and she had kicked him in the shins and run off. She had spent a week scouring pots after being forced to apologize, but at least someone had given Cailin a good talking to as well. Eideann doubted this time would be nearly so silly or foolish.

“Let’s not find out,” she suggested and then moved to the next spirit, a woman with hair in pigtails and a vibrant smile.

“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not,” she said in a gentle voice. “Of what do I speak.”

“A tune,” Leliana replied, smiling. The spirit smiled back.

“Yes. I was Andraste’s dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard Her would be filled with joy. They say the Maker Himself was moved by Andraste’s song, and then She sang no more of simple things.” The last note was sad as the spirit faded away and Eideann narrowed her eyes, looking onward.

“Are these supposed to make sense?” Oghren said in a flat tone. Eideann just shook her head.

“Don’t worry about it Oghren. I don’t expect you to know.”

“Just give me something I can hit, Warden, and be done with it,” he muttered, but he followed them to the next spirit. 

This was a man, an elf, armed with a bow and bald.

“Shartan?” Alistair suggested. The elf just smiled the same smile as all the others.

“I’d neither a guest nor a trespasser be; in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?” 

“Home,” Eideann said softly, thinking of Highever and that night doing riddles with Teagan and Fergus and Prince Cailin. Her hand crept into the fur at Angus’s neck and the dog nudged her with a soft whine. Shartan’s spirit gave a nod, and then sighed.

“It was my dream for the people to have a home of their own, where we would have no maters but ourselves,” he told them. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste, against the Imperium. But She was betrayed, and so were we.” And then he too was gone. They had spoken to almost half the chamber now, and Alistair had a strange look.

“This Gauntlet is a little depressing,” he said frankly. “All this about betrayal and sorrow and regrets. Even the Guardian outside the door.” Eideann nodded, but she had nothing to say to that.

The next spirit was another woman, eyes cold as she peered at them. At their approach she did not smile. She stared at Eideann instead, and her lips twisted into a sneer.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” she said in a voice like stone. “The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?” 

“Vengeance,” Eideann said in a voice so low it sounded as cold and cruel as the woman’s before her. That was an idea she had wrestled with, of course. Even now. The woman met her gaze, nodding.

“My husband, Hessarian, would have chosen a quick death for Andraste. I made him swear that She would die publicly, with Her warleaders, that all would know the Imperium’s strength. I am justice. I am _vengeance_. Blood can only be repaid in blood.” 

“Justice and vengeance are separated only by desire and the lack of control,” Eideann replied, and the spirit finally gave a cruel smile and vanished. Eideann shook her head, feeling a sense of foreboding, and then moved on.

She did not want to hurry. She could sense something was coming, but she also did not wish to spend forever speaking to spirits in an empty chamber playing riddles. The next spirits were more closely linked to Andraste than most of the others had been. Now they spoke to a vision of Maferath himself, armored like an Alamarri and watching them with sad eyes.

“A poison of the soul,” he said, words soft and kindly, “passion’s cruel counterpart; from love she grows, til love lies slain. Of what do I speak?” 

“Jealousy,” Leliana said quietly, and Maferath nodded. He was not smiling either. 

“Jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was the greatest general of the Alamarri, but beside Her I was nothing. Hundreds fell before Her on bended knee. They loved Her, as did the Maker. I loved Her too, but what man can compare with a god?” What man indeed.

“Where do you think it goes next?” Alistair asked grimly, his look concerned. “This feels like it’s building up to something…”

“Yes,” Eideann agreed. “And I have no idea what.” 

A man in plain Chantry robes was next, and he was smiling again. 

“The bones of the world stretch towards the sky’s embrace, veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak.”

“Oh! I know this one!” Oghren shuffled forward, peering at the man. “The mountains,” he announced proudly. “Stone sense has to pay off somehow.” Eideann smiled and Havard nodded, watching Oghren.

“Yes. I carried Andraste’s ashes out of Tevinter into the mountains to the east where she could gaze ever into Her Maker’s sky…No more fitting a tomb than this could we find.” There it was again: finding it. Not building it. Finding. Eideann narrowed her eyes. 

And there were only two spirits left. Both wore robes, one Tevinter and one Chantry. 

“Hessarian,” Alistair said, putting a name to a face and approaching the ancient Archon. Eideann followed him, and Archon Hessarian considered them both.

“She wields the broken sword, and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak.” Alistair looked back to Eideann, something in his eyes, and then he replied.

“Mercy,” he said, and the Archon nodded.

“I could not bear the sight of Andraste’s suffering, and mercy bade me end Her life,” he told them. “I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him.” And then there was the final spirit, who crossed to join them with an odd look.

“No man has seen it, but all men know it,” he told them. “Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak.” Alistair behind her drew a breath.

“Hunger,” he replied in a flat voice, and Eideann glanced back to see for a moment the lines of his life in his face. How many times had Alistair gone hungry in his life? He had slept in the stables, he had once told her. There was something in his look that told her he was well aware the power of hunger, and she did not dare ask. The spirit nodded. 

“Hunger was the weapon used against the wicked men of the Tevinter Imperium. The Maker kindled the sun’s flame, scorching the land. Their crops failed, and their armies could not march. Then He opened the heavens and bade he waters flow, and washed away their filth. I am Cathaire, Disciple of Andraste and commander of Her armies. I saw these thing done, and knew the Maker smiled on us.” Eideann shook her head, and the spirit smiled, then he too vanished.

 _The Maker is cruel,_ Eideann thought. Starvation from famine, by anyone’s hand, was no better than the Blight.

And there was the noise of a lock opening beyond, and the great doors swung open.

A lone figure stood, back to them in the corridor, and Eideann froze, staring a moment. 

She…knew that figure. She had always known it. The stance was the same, the way the greying hair fell down across the collar. And for a moment everything in the world came flooding back.

Fire. Blood. The clash of steel. Taking a sword and a shield from the wall. Oren’s eyes transfixed at the sky. Darkness and the fog of war. Rory, bloodied, telling them to go. Her mother’s tears in the darkness. Too late. Too late. Always too late.

 _I will do it, Father. For you._

Bryce Cousland turned, his Cousland blue eyes a softer mirror of her own, and he watched her. And then, at last, he spoke. And it was him.

“My dearest child…”

Eideann felt hot tears spill down her cheeks, and she could not turn away. She heard the others shift behind her, and Alistair asked who it was, but his voice felt distant and absent, somewhere far away and beyond. And she took a step forward instead, forcing her feet to move. 

His brow was the same, like Fergus’s but wrinkled, and the gentleness in his eyes brought back decades of memories that rushed through her, pelting her like a howling wind, buffeting her like a storm that would not end. 

“Father?” her voice had cracked, was shattered into nothing, and it hurt to speak, to say anything else. It hurt everywhere just to say the name. 

And she realized then she had not grieved, had just kept pushing it away. She had left Highever at the end of summer, and now it was the beginning of spring, and she had not once put these things to rest. She had lived unable to stop and think, and now, here, she saw it. The shattered pieces of her heart crushed in the wake of the Blight.

Bryce Cousland stood before her, unmoving, and she moved forward, reaching out for him. 

Her hand went through his, touching nothing, and he watched her sadly as she broke into tears in earnest and sank to her knees, sobbing at his feet. 

“Father, please…” she begged, but she did not know what for. Peace? Forgiveness? Guidance? Strength? Anything and everything, and damn the Maker! It was too cruel. And yet…

A gift.

“Pup,” he called to her softly, in the same voice he always used, and she looked up, vision blurred. “You know that I am gone, but all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back,” he told her quietly in the voice she had heard a hundred thousand times since the day she was born. “No more must you grieve, my girl.” That voice was the sound of Highever, of joy and laughter and all good things. “Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let it go. It is time.” She shook her head, wrapping her arms about herself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted. “Each step forward brings me further from myself. I am so scared, Father. The things I have done, and the choices I have made…” she felt so small, so insignificant, so pathetic there. He stood there over her, Angus at her side, while she sobbed, tears darkening the flagstones where they fell. And then she looked up. “I have to go on. I know. I cannot stop. I am a Cousland, and I will see justice comes to Howe. I swear it. And I will save Ferelden. I swear it. I swore it to you there that night, and I will keep my word. I am sorry I could not save you.” Bryce Cousland shook his head.

“You have done what you must, and been strong. You have such a long road ahead of you,” he said gently, “and you must be prepared. A Cousland always does their duty first.” She nodded. And then he bowed his head. “I love you,” he said, “my fierce girl. You make me proud.” 

Eideann could not speak. She just hung her head, and when she finally looked up, she was gone. 

She felt drained of everything, so weary and so weak. Angus nudged her hand and she wrapped her arms about the dog’s neck and held him, burying her face in the warmth of his fur. 

“Oh Angus,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Angus…” He gave a low gruff and she closed her eyes.

A soft touch on her hair made her look up, and she saw Alistair standing there beside her, eyes full of concern and care and sadness and worry. She licked her lips and sniffed, and he crouched beside her, pulling her into his arms. For awhile that was all they could do, stay there like that, she and he and the dog. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into her hair. “I’m sorry.”

And then at last Eideann settled into a soft calm, something she had not felt in months, and she looked up at his face where he held her and nuzzled into his shoulder.

“I hate Andraste,” she said softly, a mere mumble, and he gave a surprised laugh, sounding relieved, and drew back enough to smile at her and wipe away her tears. And then he rose, sighing, and helping her to stand.

“Come on, my love,” he breathed for her ears only. “Time to find some magic dirt.” She smiled a little and nodded, and Angus beside her gave a bark. 

Oghren was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but he said nothing when she looked at him. Leliana gave her a soft smile and nod of encouragement. 

“Right,” Alistair said, peering around the next corner into the next chamber. “What is next.” 

Eideann let him lead. It was the first time he had appeared to want to. Maybe it was because she had seemed so weak. He had heard all she had say. They all had. Maybe he was just determined to press on and be done with the horrible place.

The next chamber was in a more ruined state, with the flagstones chipped and falling apart. The chamber was not lit like the others, instead glowing a soft blue, and through her bleary eyes it took Eideann a moment to realize what the test was. She was almost too late.

The attacker came from nowhere, launching itself with dual blades directly at Alistair. Eideann was in the way in a moment, and that was when she recognized she was fighting herself.

“Maker’s blood!” Alistair spat, hauling himself up and drawing his sword as quickly as he could. His own shade attacked him this time, and it descended into chaos. Even Angus had to deal with his own version of himself. But he had worked out it was an enemy quickly enough.

And so they set about killing themselves.

“I hate this place!” Oghren spat angrily when he had finished with his doppelganger. The shades vanished when they died, and Eideann shook her head.

“I’m sure it’s meant to be all metaphoric,” Alistair agreed, “but enough is enough.” Leliana shook her head.

“We must respect the trials if we are to make it to the Urn,” she said, but Eideann gave her a dark look and she fell silent after that.

With the spirits dead, they emerged into a chamber with half the floor missing, a chasm surrounded by an odd pattern of square flagstones raised slightly from the floor. Eideann inched forward, but she could not see the bottom of the hole, so she sighed and stood back and sheathed her blades then, crossing her arms instead.

“Wonderful.” 

“Andraste only favored the clever, I see,” Alistair muttered. He joined her, leaning against the wall beside her, watching her with careful eyes. “I’m terrible at puzzles,” he admitted, but glanced to the squares that lined the pit. “But..you know those thingies? They look like they do something. Maybe we should touch them? Or stand on them?” Eideann glanced to them, then back to him with weary eyes. He smiled slightly at her. 

“Alistair,” Leliana said frankly from the edge of the pit. She was not looking at them and had completely missed his sarcasm for once. “Normal people tend to avoid strange bits of floor. They tend to be traps.” Eideann smiled a little and Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her before calling back to Leliana.

“You don’t _really_ think they’re traps do you?” 

It helped a little, and Eideann finally pushed her way up and wandered over to the first square, which she tested with her foot. It sank when she touched it, and so she stood on it properly, and suddenly there was the outline of a bridge. 

“Look,” Leliana said, standing on another, turning the first piece solid.

“Four pieces,” Eideann said softly. “Alright, show me what each button does.”

It took some doing, but at last Eideann had a better picture of the pattern, and Leliana had as well. The two of them worked together, directing Alistair and Oghren and Angus to stand on different buttons about the circle. Slowly, piece by piece, they managed to build the bridge. 

Leliana was the one to cross in the end, because Eideann was needed to keep the balance right. Leliana stepped onto the first portion, and then Eideann took over directing. Leliana eyes on the goal, stepped ever forward.

And then suddenly she was across, and everyone gave a sigh of satisfaction, and the bridge solidified for the rest of them to cross. Eideann tested it, and then led the rest through.

And then they were in the final chamber, and they all stopped to stare.

“I…I…I have no words,” Leliana said, staring. Alistair exhaled all the air in his lungs at once, blinking. 

“By the Maker, it’s…it’s the Urn of Sacred Ashes! That’s it! That’s really it!” So after all that he still had not been convinced that they would find it in the chamber beyond.

Eideann stared, but she still felt no presence of the Maker there, or Andraste. She knew that all of this, the bridge and the flames before them, the ever-burning fires that lit the chambers, and the spirits that populated them with faces and names, could not be real anywhere but the Fade. Nowhere else let spirits take on different forms. They would change based on everyone who passed through those halls, and such change was only possible outside in the Fade. 

And the ash outside…she wondered.

And yet there was a power there. 

She stood before an altar, worn with time and bearing a simple inscription. The way forward was blocked by flame, but further in was a grand dais up a good ten steps, and atop it a statue of Andraste, an ever-burning light in her hand. And in front of the statue was a golden urn, ornate and shining in the firelight. 

Eideann glanced at it, then bent over the inscription.

“Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness off spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker’s sight.” 

“Your Maker likes to watch, Warden,” Oghren chuckled. Eideann grimaced and looked to the flames. It was a baptism of fire. And it was the only way forward. 

So she reached down then to undo her boots, and Oghren gave a chuckle and began to shed his armor more hurriedly than necessary. Leliana and Alistair looked uncomfortable, but then at last they too followed suit, until all four of them stood, bare of armor and weapons and everything. Eideann, at last, carefully removed the Warden Pendant from about her neck, and set it aside gently. And then she ordered Angus to stay. 

“On the count of three,” Eideann told them all, standing before the heated flames. Alistair’s hand found hers beside her and she glanced at him before counting. “One…two…three.” And they stepped.

It did not burn or singe their flesh. No one screamed in pain. Instead it felt cool, clean, and Eideann drew a deep breath.

“You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet,” came the soft voice of the Guardian as he materialized before the dais steps. “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like her you have been cleansed. You have been deemed worthy, pilgrim, approach the Sacred Ashes.” And suddenly their clothes were back in place, as if they had never removed them at all. Eideann thought of the commoner clothes that Alistair’s dream had imposed on her back in the Circle Tower. 

_Yes,_ she thought. _This has to be the Fade._

 _Perhaps,_ a second thought came. But does that make it any less real?

Eideann glanced to the Guardian who nodded, and then vanished. And then, carefully, she climbed the steps.

“I never dreamed,” Leliana said as she drew up beside her, “I would ever lay my eyes on the Urn.”

“I didn’t think anyone could find Andraste’s final resting place,” Alistair agreed, “but here…here She is.” 

Oghren scoffed, climbing the last step.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweet cheeks,” he muttered. “I don’t know how mystical this Urn really is.” Eideann glanced back and he met her eyes. “The lyrium veins in these walls are richer and purer than any I’ve sensed in a while. It’s doing things…change this temple and everything in it.”

Enough to change the Fade or invoke something similar within their world? Interesting concept, and it may be possible. Eideann nodded, then sighed.

“Well, I don’t much mind if it’s Andraste’s ashes or just dirt from outside, so long as it actually heals like it’s meant to.” 

“Might do,” Oghren muttered. “Lyrium has been known to increase stamina and regenerative speeds before.” 

“Then we will take some,” Eideann said. Thinking about it as a jar of dirt helped her to remove the lid and take a pinch, which she folded carefully into a hankerchief Leliana held out for her. Then she gently put the folded hankerchief into her bag and looked back. 

There were two doors to leave, and she did not know where either led, but she did not want to go back the other way if she could help it, so she motioned for the others to follow her and they took the door on the left.

It led down towards some tunnels, which finally opened up into the mountain air. They were lower on the mountain now, not too far from Haven where their horses were still stabled at the Chantry, though the sun was starting to set. Eideann had no desire to go attempting to descend in the dark, not with the paths as snowy as they were, so she decided on the Chantry, and they took the long path, avoiding the rest of the Temple and the High Dragon.

“Thank you, Eideann,” Leliana said as they walked back along an ancient path currently dusted with snow. “I had never thought to see such a thing.” Eideann shook her head.

“Don’t thank me. I still don’t believe that discovering these things was in the best interest of the world.” Leliana was quiet on that topic, but she did give Eideann a sympathetic look.

“Well, thank you anyway,” she replied. “And…I am sorry…about Highever.” And then she hurried ahead and left Eideann to her thoughts.

They made it back to the Chantry as night was falling. Up there, high in the mountains, the stars shone like lights in the sky, bright and wonderful and clear. Leliana and Alistair vanished inside to rebuild the fire from the night before, and Eideann went to tend to their horses.

Hers was happy to see her and Angus, and it pranced a little with a soft whinny as she went to pet its nose. She calmed it, checked their things were still there. And then caught sight of a skin of Chasind sack mead they had bought from Orzammar’s market to keep them warm on the ride south. She unfastened it and brought it with her back up towards the Chantry.

When she returned, she found Oghren, sitting on the Chantry steps and staring at the skies. She considered him a moment, then the sack mead, and finally sank into a seat beside him, opening the skin and taking a long drink of the honeyed alcohol before pushing it into his hands. He took it with a gruff thanks and drank deeply of it before shaking his head.

“You know, Warden…” he said after a moment. “Your gods make Dusters look nice.” Eideann nodded.

“It’s better to ignore them sometimes,” she replied. He grinned then took another drink and passed the sack back for her. She joined him and finally sighed. “What…what you said about Branka and the others…” He stiffened, but she shook her head. “Oghren, you are very brave.” He was quiet then, and still, but finally he looked to her with eyes that were dark and unsure.

“Warden,” he said after a moment, “you and I….” He paused. “You know how sometimes you spend time with people and things…?”

“I love you too, Oghren,” Eideann teased, taking a long drink of the mead. It was sweet and good and Maker, it was so easy to just…forget. He chuckled, rocking on the step.

“Ha! Well, I’ll be shaved, skinned, and hung up to dry! It’s too soon, though, lady. Too soon.” Eideann laughed again and tossed him the skin, which he caught and drank from before sighing. “I just wanted to ask a favor.”

“You ask me a lot of favors, Oghren,” Eideann said, but leaned back on her hands to consider him. “What is it?”

“I was thinking, I do know some people out here on the surface.” Eideann blinked and her smile faded slightly as she listened. “A person, actually. Girl I knew in Orzammar. Before I left, obviously.” Eideann’s smile crept back.

“A girl you knew, or a girl you _knew_?” she asked pointedly, stealing back the mead.

“What? You mean were we rutting.” Charming, that dwarf, really. “Oh, aye. After Branka left for the Deep Roads. Name’s Felsi, and she was a fiery one.” Eideann narrowed her eyes.

“No,” she said suddenly. “Not after Branka left. Earlier.” Oghren looked away, picking at the stone steps with his fingers. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I was with her when…when my family arranged for me to marry Branka. At first I hated it, but I stopped seeing Felsi and married Branka, and...well she grew on you, you know? Like a fungus.” He shook his head. “When she left, I tried to see Felsi for a bit, but she eventually left. Couldn’t be with me when I was all broken like that. She left to come topside.” His brow was knitted and he was staring out as if angry. But then when he looked back to her, and she passed over the mead, he nodded. “I’m sure she’s forgiven me by now. Thought maybe I’d track her down, see how she’s been living.” 

“Oghren,” Eideann shook her head. He grinned, then passed the mean back again after swallowing another mouthful and wiping the back of his hand on his beard.

“Anyway,” he said softly, “she left for the surface a year back, and I haven’t seen her since,” Eideann sighed, bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her head on her knees to stare at the dwarf, holding the mead tight in one hand by the neck. 

“Do you know how to find her?” Eideann asked quietly. He nodded.

“Last I heard she was going to live in a town near some…lake. Cleanbad Lake, was it? Ah, sod it, I don’t remember. Someone said she was going to Redcliffe, and I figured since…since we’re going to Redcliffe…”

“We’ll find her,” Eideann said after a moment, and he looked up with eyes shining from alcohol and something else. And he nodded.

“Thanks, Warden,” he muttered, and then looked up again at the stars. 

“So,” Eideann said, looking at them again herself. “How do you like the surface?” He grinned.

“It’s sodding _great_. At first I was a little queasy, with all that air, but…there’s just so much of it!” he said. “No one has any idea who you are. Or what you’re doing. And the ale! Who’d have thought, ale made with grain!” 

“Yeah, better than dirt,” Eideann said, swigging from the mead again and then looking at the skin. 

“Lichen, Warden.” 

“It’s disgusting, whatever it is. And I’ve drunk some pretty disgusting stuff in my life,” she muttered. Oghren just chuckled and then sighed. Eideann set aside the sack and he looked at it. “The rest,” she told him, “is yours. I’m going to bed. Don’t be out too long.” Eideann pushed herself up and brushed off her tunic. He nodded, then picked up the skin as she turned towards the Chantry door. 

“Warden?” she looked back. “Thanks.” Eideann met his eyes, then nodded, and turned away again.

Alistair was waiting for her by the fire where Leliana was staring at his cooking with an air of confusion.

“What is it?” she was asking, where he was standing over their cookpot stirring something.

“This?” he asked, twisting the ladle. “This is a traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew. Do you like it?”

“So…it’s lamb then?” Leliana asked after a moment. “There’s a certain texture I don’t normally associate with lamb.” 

“They didn’t make lamb and pea stew for you in Lothering?” Alistair asked, tilting his head a little. Eideann crossed her arms and leaned in the doorway, shaking her head with a smile. She felt warm from the drink, at ease for the first time in…forever. 

“We ate simply there,” Leliana explained. “Whole grains, made into biscuits or bread, and vegetables from the garden, cooked lightly. No heavy stews.” Maker, Eideann made a point to never stay in a Chantry. The Coastlands lived and died on stews. 

“Ah, so the last lamb you had was probably cooked Orlesian style,” Alistair said, banging the spoon on the side of the pot and then looking about for bowls. “Food shouldn’t be frilly and pretentious like that. Now we’re here in Ferelden, we do things right. We take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color,” he explained, and for once his usual irony was actually honest. He grinned at Eideann, then began heaping the stew into bowls. “As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that’s when we know it’s done.” He filled the bowl and handed it to Leliana who stared at it a moment, then looked back up.

“You’re having me on,” she said incredulous. 

“You need to eat in more Ferelden inns,” Alistair laughed, and then passed Eideann her bowl. She took it and shook her head.

“It’s true,” Eideann told the bard, “but it does not help that Alistair is the worst cook among us.” He raised an eyebrow and then sank into his seat beside her.

“Such cruelty from such a beautiful woman,” he muttered, and then tucked in. And they were hungry enough they all did so. There was some left for Oghren, who eventually staggered in, warm and dizzy with mead, to join them. And then Leliana took the pots to wash in a basin near the fire she was heating with water, and Oghren settled down with Angus on the carpet before the hearth. 

Alistair watched him a moment, then shook his head.

“All that…about Branka…” he said after awhile.

“Leave him be,” Eideann smiled softly. “He’ll come to terms with it.” Alistair looked to her then, and his smile faded a little.

“Are you…” Eideann looked into the flames that were dancing in the hearth and she swallowed hard.

“I…I miss them,” she said after a moment. “And I’m scared.” It took a lot to admit that to his face. Less so to say it to Bryce Cousland but more to say it to Alistair, who depended on her. He nodded.

“I know. And I am too.”

“I keep telling myself to be brave, to be strong. I have to be, to battle the Blight. But…I don’t know…” she looked away, but he pulled her gently back to face him, taking both her hands in his.

“Bravery is not the same as being fearless. Bravery is feeling fear and choosing to go on anyway,” he said softly, and she met his eyes a moment, molten gold in the firelight. “Come with me,” he whispered. And then he drew her up from her seat and walked her backwards through the Chantry to the other chambers.

His closed the door behind them, careful and gentle, and his lips found hers in the semi-darkness. A candle flickered in the corner, presumably one he had lit earlier, because there was no way it had been burning since the day before. He kissed her then, hands soft, and his fingers wove into her hair. 

“You are,” he murmured, breaking away to slowly undo the belt about her tunic, “the bravest, most incredible woman I know. And I do not expect you to know what to do or how. You lead because you follow your heart and mind and do what you think is right. That is enough. I love that about you.” She met his eyes.

There was that word again, so casually sprinkled into his conversation. And she felt the dampness of tears in her eyes as he kissed her jaw and neck. Her tunic came open and his hands found her skin inside, and he broke away to meet her eyes.

“I...Eideann, I love you,” he said softly, and she pulled him down into another kiss.

“Then show me,” she murmured, and he pushed her tunic from her shoulders as she worked at the buckles of his belt. 

There was a new urgency then, fierce and fiery and determined, to be together, intertwined. She fell onto the soft mattress and he joined her, kissing wherever he could reach. And her breath caught and her head tipped back as he climbed onto the bed with her, surrendering to the need that ran like veins of fire between them, a connection they could not sever. 

He gazed down upon her in the candlelight, eyes still shining like gold, and she nodded, moving to wrap her legs about him. And then she was arching, a moan escaping her as she felt him there. 

And it was like home. Home. Not Highever, the home of days gone, which would never be the same. This…this was Alistair, this was them, all theirs and theirs alone. Home. 

Tears slipped from the corner of her eyes, silent and relieving, and she felt him kiss them away. She wrapped her arms tight about him, and then he began to move, and she was lost to the night and darkness. All the promises and oaths and pressing needs were banished far away, and there was only them, in that small space, panting together in the darkness. 

And she heard it then, a quiet voice, sounding distant and yet the center of her very being, the truth that hung between them for so long. It was her voice, it had come from her, that soft sound, those four words, and so she said them again, a mere whisper, as Alistair held her close inside his arms.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about Oghren's backstory:
> 
> The stuff about his being with Felsi even before Branka is true-to-lore from World of Thedas. I liked it enough I needed to add it, because I think it says a lot about Oghren as a guy personally. I did change where Felsi lives though, because earlier I changed the location of the Spoiled Princess to Crestwood and used that as a launching point for Kinloch Hold. As you may recall, Crestwood is now flooded, and presumably the Spoiled Princess with it. So Felsi works at the Gull and Lantern in Redcliffe. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has to deal with gossip; the two groups reunite and head towards Redcliffe; Alistair finally confides in Eideann; Sten and Eideann scout out Redcliffe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome. :)

Maker, the woman drove him wild. Making love in a Chantry? Of all things? He was going to struck by lightning at any moment now.

He thought of the road to Redcliffe below, their destination, and grimaced. Maybe he could still convince her to run away with him to Orlais or Nevarra or the Free Marches where they could live out their days in sin? 

No. They had a job to do. So they were going to do it. Neither of them could do anything less. 

And yet…

_I love you too._ The words made his heart sing with the song of the Maker itself, and he drew a deep breath, focusing on the horse’s reins in his hands and the road before him.

_Stop getting distracted, Alistair,_ he told himself. _You need your wits about you now._

And just when he decided that, Leliana was sidling up to Eideann on her horse, grinning.

“So, you and Alistair?” the bard said and Alistair’s heart nearly stopped. Maker, what on earth was that woman up to now? Eideann would not put up with it, surely? Ugh. 

“Alistair and I what?” Eideann asked archly. Alistair could not see her face, but he knew that tone of voice was the sort she used when she was gauging a situation. 

“You and Alistair,” Leliana said, her gaze flickering slyly back towards him. “Together, looking contented? You even had a…glow about you. So shameless.” Alistair could feel his neck heating, and his face and squeezed his eyes shut a moment.

_Horse, do not fail me now._ And then he heard the humor in Eideann’s voice.

“I think that’s a side effect of the Joining,” she said simply. Some sort of joining anyway. Maker’s breath, would something not smite him where he stood and spare him this? Eideann still seemed amused though, like she knew he was squirming and she was also trying to make Leliana uncomfortable for asking as well.

“The Joining - ? Oh! That Grey Warden ritual? No, that’s not it,” Leliana said, shaking her head. “You definitely have the glow of someone in love.” What in the Maker’s name was the woman on about? Seeing things again? “So, how is Alistair…?” 

And for the love of all that was holy, Eideann actually looked back as if surveying him, before quirking an eyebrow.

“He looks fine to me,” she finally said, shooting him a smirk and laughing. 

“You know what I mean. Alistair, and you…those long nights. He must be quite delightful…you wouldn’t be so happy otherwise, I think.” Eideann just laughed again and he was not sure if that made him feel worse. Ugh. The whole experience was horrible. Just like when Oghren asked what he did with her legs. Eideann had seized control of that conversation too. He wished she would shut down this one. Instead she turned back to the road and guided her horse down the snowy path carefully, pointedly not answering. Leliana did not understand the hint and kept prodding, teasing them both.

“He’s athletic,” she said musingly, as if he was not _right_ there. “That’s always nice. He is also good at following instructions, isn’t he?” Her wicked grin made him blush from head to toe.

“Leliana,” Eideann said simply, “I am very happy with his performance.” And that should be the end of it, though he did get a glow of pride at that. Leliana laughed. Not quite the end of it then.

“Ohh…Fascinating. The little Templar is all grown up and apparently he…ahem…plays well with others.” No, at that he would have to step in and put a stop to such nonsense.

“What are you giggling about! What is she giggling about?!” Alistair demanded, just in case Eideann was not fully aware he could hear all of it. Maybe that would silence them. His interruption had the opposite effect. Even Oghren was snickering behind him. 

“You,” Eideann called back. “And your performance.” 

“My performance? And why does that warrant giggling?!” he called back. Eideann just laughed and nudged her horse to trot onward a little where he could not catch her. 

“We’re just talking about how you treat her in bed,” Leliana said frankly. “Nothing you should concern yourself with.” Actually, he should greatly concern himself with that! How wrong she was. And that thought get him more flustered.

“Oh Maker, what’s wrong with you women!” Alistair demanded, and Leliana grinned again, giggling and then turning back to the road. 

“Let the girls have their moment,” Oghren grinned. “When you’ve rutted with enough of them – “

“I am not an animal!” Alistair said, cutting him off. Oghren grinned.

“Aye, but I bet _she_ is.” He winked at Alistair. “Am I right, Warden?” 

“What? Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Alistair asked, confused and overwhelmed. 

“What is his giggling about?” Eideann called back, staring pointedly at Oghren.

“You. And your performance!” Oghren called back through his snorting laughter. “We’re just talking about how you treat him in bed.” 

Wonderful. Everyone was a comedian when sex was concerned. Eideann grinning just made it worse. She did not go red at all. She just fixed Oghren with a look.

“The answer,” she called back, “is still none of your blighted business, Oghren.” She said it like it was Leliana’s business though. The dwarf just grinned.

“Sweet talker!” 

How Alistair survived the rest of the journey down along the river to the Hinterlands, he would never know. That brief embarrassment faded along with the last of the snows the closer they drew to Arl Eamon’s lands, while his tension only grew.

The first village was a small town, barely a collection of houses, which gathered around a small market stall and a single bedroom alehouse. Oghren immediately slid from his horse and headed inside. Leliana took their horses, and Eideann crossed to stand with Alistair, a smile on her face. 

“Are you embarassed?” she asked him when they were finally alone. He just sighed.

“This too shall pass,” he muttered, and then gathered his belongings. 

There were a few other horses in the stables, namely the ones that the others had brought south. Wynne was standing at the market stall, looking through the simple country wares, and she waved to them as they arrived.

“Any luck?” she asked and Eideann smiled a little and nodded. Wynne brightened. “Good. We still haven’t been able to hear what was happening in Redcliffe, but the rest of the Hinterlands appear to be alright. Whatever it is in an isolated incident, and the sooner we move on to the town, the better. I am eager to see if I can help this Arl Eamon.” She was, after all, a very powerful spirit mage. 

“Ah, I see you have returned.” Morrigan emerged from the inn with a look on her face. “The dwarf is within attempting to order all the alcohol in the establishment. I suggest you curtail him before we are forced to pay the debt.” Eideann sighed, shaking her head.

“I’ll handle him,” she muttered, and left him there with two mages and a confused stall owner. 

“I’ll make sure the horses are cared for,” Alistair muttered. At least he could do that, get them ready for the journey. 

He did not like the idea that there still was no news from Redcliffe. If it was isolated, that meant it was not darkspawn, and he had no idea what else it could be. But Eideann had been convinced almost immediately that Arl Eamon’s illness was linked with the other events that had stirred the Civil War under Loghain, and that made him even more concerned. 

And worse…he was running out of time. 

_Be brave, Alistair,_ he told himself, and gathered a bag of oats from the wall to hold for the first of the horses. At least some skills weren’t easily forgotten. He was disturbed by the approach of Leliana, who leaned against the wall a moment, and then sighed.

“Brother Genitivi has already departed for Denerim,” Leliana said, approaching. “I had been hoping to tell him what we had found.” He shook his head.

“It’s best he doesn’t know,” he said. “Those ashes are not self-replenishing.” Well… “Unless Eideann was right and they really were just ashes from outside?” He sighed and moved on to the next horse, which went for the oats with gumption. 

“I do not think so,” Leliana shook her head.

“I just hope they work,” Alistair grumbled.

“You…you really love her, don’t you?” the bard asked him suddenly, and Alistair sighed, then nodded, lowering the oats and moving to the next horse.

“Yes.” 

“You’re hiding something,” the bard said. He looked to her, and her grey eyes cut through the darkness of the stables to peer through him.

“What? No…”

“Do not lie to me. I can tell a liar, Alistair,” she said in a voice that was colder than normal. Was this Leliana the bard then? He had heard stories, but he had never tried to confirm them with her. He had a hard enough time reconciling Chantry Sister with regular bard. Orlesian bards…spies…Maker’s breath. Maybe she could tell.

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell her,” Leliana said after a moment of staring at him. She looked away. “Whatever your secret is, it is bothering you. And she loves you. She will hear it.” 

“I know.” He sighed, patting the horse, and when he looked around, Leliana was gone.

They rode out not long after, Eideann with a much more serious expression as they made their way along the road to Redcliffe. Spring meant that the Hinterlands were blooming, even with the Blight creeping through the lands not too far south from where they were now. 

Before long, the stones began to turn a soft red, and the earth became a clay the color of rust beneath their feet. The lands became more hills amidst the rock formations, rolling into the breathtaking beauty of the vistas of Redcliffe. Beyond, glittering, they could just make out Lake Calenhad and Redcliffe Castle on the island out in the distance. Alistair felt a wash of homesickness he had not felt in years, and he also felt trepidation. The closer they neared the more he was running out of time.

As they neared the area, Morrigan took to the skies, a raven that soared high above them, but when she returned she had only grim news and nothing to add. Eideann, concerned, called a halt. 

“It’s growing dark,” she said softly, “and we don’t know what is happening in the village. I’d rather go in in the morning than chance an encounter with darkspawn or Loghain’s men in the dark. We’ll make camp on the ridge and ride the rest of the way down tomorrow.” So they broke camp then, pitching their tents in the old Witchwood which was filled with the eerie mist of lyrium veins and made his whole skin tingle with the presence of magic. Alistair was restless, and that was when he realized he was out of time. Redcliffe was beyond, the gate just to the south in the distance.

It was now or never.

***

Eideann eased the saddle from her horse, set it on the ground, and petted the creature’s nose. She had a sense of unease, and had already spoken with Sten about posting a guard and going forth to check their situation. He was meant to be the eyes and ears of the Antaam, right? Whatever that was. For the moment, he would be her eyes and ears. She would go with him into the forests and see if they could make better sense of what was going on. 

She glanced to the swords tied to the saddle and then carefully pulled each free. One, the Cousland Blade, was pure silverite its pommel graced with a deep blue gem. Its blade glittered with runes laid there long ago, and she turned it over in her hands a moment, testing the grip, then sighed. She slipped it back into the sheath and drew a breath.

Maric’s blade was similar in style, also glittering with runes, but on the hilt was a polished garnet of a deep amber, and it was forged of dragonbone. Eideann stared at it too, and then closed her eyes.

“Eideann? Can we…talk for a moment?” Her guard was instantly up. She opened her eyes and looked to Alistair who was unable to meet hers back. A creeping chill went up her spine, and then she bit her tongue hard to bring herself back to the here and now. And she gave a nod. “I need to tell you something,” Alistair said hesitantly, “I…ah…should probably have told you earlier.” He did look at her then, eyes so full of anguish she was startled. He beckoned her to follow, back away from the others, and she followed, suspicious, the swords still in her hands. 

“What’s on your mind?” she asked him warily, and he shifted nervously, looking into the woods that were lit with the glow of lyrium beyond. 

“Well, I…told you before that Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?” She narrowed her eyes but nodded slowly, maneuvering so he would have to look at her. He gave her a pained look, like ever part of him was tense. “Well, the reason that he did that was because…well…because my father was King Maric.” 

Eideann froze, because it did not sink in at first. She just kept listening, waiting for him to say what it was he was going to say. And then it sank through the surface like she was being swallowed by the sea, and suddenly she had the pieces. Suddenly she knew what picture she was trying to see. 

_Watch over Alistair._

And she could see it in him then too, in the flickering firelight and the glow from the lyrium, in the way he smiled, and the confidence when she felt weak. Their brow was the same, his and Cailin’s. Their nose. The set of their jaw. Maker’s blood. Maric’s jaw, Maric’s brow, Maric’s nose. Just someone else’s eyes. Amber, soft now, scared that she was judging him.

She was. She had no choice.

His father was _the_ Maric who had unified Ferelden. _The_ Maric whose sword was in her hands. She stared at it, embarrassed. 

His brother was Cailin. _The_ Cailin who had been so close to her brother, who she had kicked in the shins once, who she had sworn her entire family to until their dying breath. _The_ Cailin who they had burned on a pyre at Ostagar, and Alistair had never once said a word. _The_ Cailin whose royal armor was strapped to their horses even now. 

Eideann forced herself to breathe, to think.

She thought of Arl Eamon’s letter, recommending that Cailin set aside Anora in favor of a different wife, a different connection. Celene had been his choice, but the way he had looked at her that night in Ostagar, she knew she had been the other option. In spite of that, Arl Eamon had cared for Alistair’s needs in case there ever _was_ a need.

_He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be._

Cailin had made his arrangements to marry his new Orlesian Queen, but he had sent his only heir, even if illegitimate, and the last Cousland scion from the bulk of the fighting at Ostagar on purpose. 

_Watch over Alistair._ He had said it in reply to her swearing her house to the Theirins. Maker’s blood.

The whole world had shifted suddenly, into clearer focus. She did the only thing she could do in that moment. She tucked the Cousland blade under her arm, giving a slight bow, and with the other she held forth Maric’s blade.

“This is yours,” she said. He took a step back, putting up his hands. 

“Eideann…”

_I love you._ The memory of her voice or his? Both. Both of them together. Their words.

She turned away.

Of course, Loghain must know. Zevran, the Antivan Crow, was not hired to kill Grey Wardens. He was hired to kill nobility. Loghain did not see them as a threat because they were Wardens. He had been worried about her challenging him, and that much she had already worked out for herself. But Alistair…he was a direct descendant of Maric. The two of them together…

“Fuck.” She could not help herself. The word just slipped out, and she drew a breath. He did not move, did not speak. And finally she looked to him.

He looked broken, like she had shattered something within him, and she stared at him a moment before drew a shaking breath.

“So…” she said, trying to find the way to approach him again, trying to get back everything that had been. Rose petals in the bottom of her pack, tender kisses on every inch of her, lyrium stars, what it felt like when he was inside her. Home. And she pushed it all aside because there was only one way to handle it, only one way to reach him. 

She went back to the beginning, back to the first thing he had ever done for her. He had made her laugh when she had cried for weeks. Laughter then. Humor. The greatest escape. 

“You’re not just a bastard, you’re a royal bastard?” she said simply, and meant it in both ways – the joke and the accusation. She was angry, underneath everything else. And scared. 

It caught him off guard. He stared a moment, and then a small smile twitched at his lips, and he looked away, running a hand over his hair.

“Yes, I guess it does at that,” he admitted, to both the joke and the accusation. Then he shook his head. “I should use that line more often.” When he looked up again, his eyes were sad, haunted. “I would have told you, but it’s never really meant anything to me. I was a threat to Cailin’s throne, so they kept me a secret.” His words came quicker then, like a dam had broken, flooded. She felt she was drowning, just like she had drowned Crestwood. What comes around…

“Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me,” he explained. “Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it.” So that was why he was untried when they went into the Wilds. That was why he was in the camp when the other Grey Wardens were in the field with the army. “I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted, “as long as possible. I’m sorry.” 

Those were the words that broke her. 

_I didn’t want you to know as long as possible._

Eideann felt the anger flare up and she fixed him with a look.

“I have shared my body with you, and you didn’t want me to know?” she said quietly, her voice a dangerous, low tone. Her heart was cold, she felt her whole body stiffen with the backlash. “When did you think would be a good time to tell me? We’ve been with each other almost every single day for eight months!” And then she looked away, down at her family sword, and she shook her head. “I am a Teyrna, Alistair, of one of the oldest families in Ferelden. I have been playing a long game in this Civil War since the moment I crossed paths with your brother in Ostagar. I am the only person in all of Ferelden who has the ability and legitimacy to challenge Loghain in a Landsmeet. And on top of that you made me Warden-Commander because you did not want the responsibility yourself. Loghain has had us hunted down because of the threat we pose. He has thrown his full weight against us. I thought it was because of me. But the one he really needs dead is you. And of course he knows this. He was Maric’s best friend. Our enemy knew, and Cailin knew, and Duncan knew, but the person who is still here trying to save Ferelden, who has spent all this time with you, who you have been _sleeping_ with, didn’t know, because you didn’t want to tell her for as long as possible.” She shook her head, angry, unable to stop the words then. They had to come out. They needed to come out. They were toxic on the inside. “We are outside _Redcliffe_! You only told me now because you knew damn well what would happen once we got into that castle. I suppose I should be grateful you at least decided to tell me yourself. But it wasn’t because you wanted to. It was because you _had_ to.” She tore her gaze away, and he reached out to her, but she recoiled, stepping back. “Don’t. I need to think. I can’t…don’t…” She took a few more steps back, then looked to him, realizing she needed to ask now to part from his company, the engrained courtesy of years of training that took hold when the rest of her was a riot of turmoil. “I will take my leave, if you’ll permit it, _Prince_ Alistair?” she asked. He shook his head.

“No!” he spat. “Maker’s breath, I almost had a heart attack just hearing that! It’s not true anyway!” he insisted. Eideann just settled her gaze at a point just over his shoulder and gave a Fereldan soldier’s bow, fist on her heart. He took a step forward, and she did not look to him. “Eideann, please…” 

“Lady Cousland,” she said quietly, formally. 

“Eideann…” He froze, staring, and she dropped her gaze. “Eideann, please…” His voice was full of anguish. She felt it breaking her heart, and she looked away. “It was always made perfectly clear to me that I was a commoner, and now a Grey Warden, and in no way in line for the throne. And that’s _fine_ by me. No, if there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself, or you, or Maker…anyone else. Arl Eamon might not be of royal blood, but he’s Cailin’s uncle, and more importantly very popular with the people.” 

And old. And married into Orlais. And only an Arl.

_Oh, Alistair…_ He knew nothing of politics. He shook his head.

“If he’s really as sick as we’ve heard…No. I don’t want to think about that.” Neither did Eideann. He had taken a step closer, was almost before her now without her realizing. When had he gotten so close?

_Months ago._

She forced herself to meet his eyes. And he stared a moment, haunted, before he turned away, shame driving him away from her.

_Don’t leave it here or the words will never be said._

She reached to catch his wrist, and he froze. And then she drew a breath.

“Why?” she asked him, voicing a thousand questions in one word. Questions like why did you want to keep it a secret? Why didn’t you trust me sooner? Do you trust me? Do you think I’m a fool for not working it out myself earlier? Were you waiting to see if I would? What am I supposed to do now? What is this? Where do we go from here? Why does this hurt so much? But most importantly…

Do you really love me? 

He looked back. He had had months to tell her, a thousand moments, a thousand chances. He could have helped if he had told her. He should have said something. She was right to be angry, and he knew it. She could see that much in his eyes. He licked his lips.

“You never asked?” he suggested. She tore her hand away.

“That’s a cheap answer,” she said softly. “I deserve better than that.” He knew it as well, because he reached carefully to touch her cheek, to run sword-callused fingers across the soft skin there, and he swallowed.

“The thing is,” he said gently, “I’m not used to telling anyone who didn’t already know. I have _never_ told anyone this. Those who knew…they did not learn it from me. I have _never_ told this secret.” He looked away into the Witchwood and gritted his teeth. “And after the battle, when I should have told you…I don’t know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just…tell someone that?” Eideann gave him a flat look.

“How about: by the way, I’m the heir to the throne?” she suggested irritably. He sighed.

“Yes, well…I suppose part of me liked you not knowing,” he said simply, honestly. Maker, _that_ was why it hurt so much. This man had always been honest with her, in everything else but this. And this one thing changed so much…it was not fair.

“You…enjoyed not telling me? That’s the part that hurts. Why didn’t you tell me? Do you trust me?” she asked. He turned to press their foreheads together, and she couldn’t tear away. Not again.

“Maker, Eideann, of course I trust you! It’s just that anyone who has ever found out has treated me differently. You did too, just then, calling me Prince and wanting me to call you Lady Cousland like you’re some old dowager and we’re at an annual ball. Maker’s blood, Eideann! I know that it must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it’s shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don’t want to be king. The very idea terrifies me.” Eideann shook her head against his.

“No one chooses,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t choose to be the Teyrna. That was meant to be Fergus. I didn’t choose to watch Rendon Howe massacre my family. I didn’t choose to be the only one left standing on the field at Ostagar except you. I didn’t choose to be a Grey Warden. And yet here we are.” She sighed and noticed he had closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Eideann. I should have said it sooner. At first, I was scared. I couldn’t. I didn’t understand what had happened or where we were. We were in Lothering before I managed to make sense of anything, and you were asking questions, and Morrigan was right there, and it would have changed everything right away. You would have started treating me like…well…someone else. And the longer I waited the harder it was, because I’d have to admit as well I was a coward and didn’t tell you sooner. And now…now I have to, you’re right. I don’t want to. I don’t want it to be true. But it is. And I love you. And I was wrong not to say anything.” He pulled back a little so he could meet her eyes, and she fixed him with a look. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,” he told her. “I guess I was just hoping you’d like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do.” 

“I do like you,” she said softly. “I thought that was pretty clear at this point.” She thought of their bodies entwined in the Chantry and drew back. “You’re…not hiding anything else?” He gave a mirthless snort, scrubbing at his hair again. 

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair,” he replied with a tired look, “no. That’s it. Just…the prince thing.” She met his eyes then, and he was still the same. So much had suddenly shifted, suddenly changed. And yet, there he still was.

She was still upset, still hurt, a little angry, but she was adapting, and she had heard his side. It sounded a little selfish, a little childish, but she gave him the chance to be so, since she had been such when she had first arrived at Ostagar in the aftermath of another dramatic shift in her reality. She swallowed, and he gazed at her, amber eyes still like gold, soft and gentle and weary.

“There you have it,” he told her quietly. “Now, can we move on, and I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some…nobody was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens?” Eideann shook her head a little, drawing a breath.

“You’re here with me,” she said firmly. “I think I’m the lucky one.” She saw the surprise and the remorse in his eyes, and he reached to touch her, run her fingers into her short blonde hair again.

“I can’t believe I didn’t say something sooner to you,” he breathed, as if he were just seeing her for the first time. “I feel very unworthy of such a compliment.”

“You are,” she told him, but she smiled a little and he gave a soft chuckle.

“Eideann, I meant it, every word. I love you. You have to know that.”

“You loved me when you were pretending to be nothing,” she told him. “I’m sure Prince Alistair can love me just as well.” And whatever the future would bring, she would handle at a different time, a different day. She could not do so now. It hurt too much to think what this might mean for them.

Instead their moment was broken by Sten who drew up near them and motioned to her.

“We must go,” he said in his usual clipped tones. “The night is falling.”

“You’re going? Where?” Alistair asked as she pulled back and handed him both of the noble swords she held. 

“Scouting,” she explained, gathering her bow and quiver and securing Duncan’s dagger at her back. “We will return when we find some news.” Alistair watched them, then sighed.

“I’ll…tend to the horses,” he said and she smiled, shaking her head.

The Prince who tended to their horses, got embarrassed at the mention of loving, and couldn’t cook. Yes, he was just the same. Nothing was different. 

Only everything.

She sighed, and strung her bow.

***

He could not see a thing. It was too dark. And the village too far. The strange growths that glowed in the trees were different from anything he had ever seen before. And the entire country still stank of dog, even here, though he was sure it was wolves. 

The woman at his side – he had finally given in and decided she was a woman for all she insisted on hefting weapons and charging into battle – was quiet and still, determined. He had sensed a tension between her and the other Grey Warden, some sort of nonsense between humans. He did not really understand it, but it appeared she was angry at the other Grey Warden. 

“So what has he done to make you angry?” he finally asked, and Eideann looked at him with surprise in the darkness.

“That obvious?” She laughed. “You’ll make fun of me, but I’m annoyed at him for…” She shook her head, laughing again, and he did not understand what she found so amusing until she said, “Oh Sten, he’s fighting against who he is. I am angry because Alistair has been trying to choose to be someone he isn’t.” 

She sounded like a Qunari. He smiled slightly. 

“The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. Struggle is an illusion. There is nothing to struggle against,” he told her. “Life is not a journey where you arrive at one destination or leave another. Life is what you do. It is about your duty and the things that you do.” She shook her head with a soft smile, like she was making fun of him again, or perhaps herself. He was realizing of late that she had a habit to smile at others when she was really laughing at herself.

“Oh, Sten,” she said again. He fixed her with a look and she quirked an eyebrow. “Were you really going to try and seize control from me at Haven?” He sombered, eyes narrowed.

“I was.” She just smirked.

“Why did I let you out of that cage?” He just nodded his commiseration and turned back towards Redcliffe’s hills. 

“Parashaara, we cannot see a thing. This is useless.”

“Wait,” Eideann said, pointing towards the castle in the distance. Something strange was happening there, a green light. He peered at it a moment.

“Is that normal for castles in your land?” he asked her, and she shook her head without looking to him. “Then what is it?”

“I have no idea, but I’ve seen enough strange things lately that I’m not even surprised anymore,” she sighed. Sten just gave her a pointed look. They waited only a little longer, watching the green glow expand, but after that there was nothing. Not even sound. So Eideann gathered her bow and turned back towards the camp. “Come on, we should get back. In the morning we should find out more.”

So they walked back then, through the strangely lit woods that Sten was almost positive were possessed by demons.

“So,” Eideann asked him, bow in both hands but no arrow was nocked. “Is there anything you like about Ferelden?” She was trying to take her mind off the strange green lights. It was foolish to do so, because there may be danger, but at the same time he realized there was nothing they could do until morning, and she appeared a little troubled.

He sighed.

“There is interesting food here,” he finally admitted. The strange stew that Alistair had made, which tasted of nothing in particular; the preponderance of mushrooms near Orzammar’s gates that seemed to be involved in every dish; the small hairless rabbit pig that the dwarves ate at every meal and the Chantry sister believed was…cute; the complete lack of spices and flavor in favor of…well…bland. But there was one thing he had seen while in Orzammar’s market, and which Leliana had bought when she saw him eyeing them up. “You have a thing…it…doesn’t have a word in the Qunari tongue. Little baked things like bread but sweet and crumbly.” He eyed her up and she was smiling slightly at him. 

“Cookies? Biscuits? About this big?” She showed him with her fingers the approximate size, and he nodded, filing the word away.

“Yes. We have no such things in our lands. This should be remedied.” She gave a soft laugh, nodding.

“I shall keep that in mind for when this is over and you go home. I shall have to send you some.” It was a kind thought, but it seemed very unlikely he would ever manage to go home. He still needed his sword, which she had been assisting with certainly but remained elusive. And even if he did find Asala, they had yet to face down a Blight. Any and all of them may yet die. 

He adjusted his borrowed sword on his shoulder, chafing under this adopted soul he had taken. It was battered and bruised, chipped. He had polished it, tried to sharpen it where he could, but it was a shell of its former self, damaged and dented.

Perhaps if he could not retrieve Asala, this would be who he was for the rest of his life. And he would be stuck in Ferelden forever. Living an eternity of wet dogs, refuse, and backwards people who were not sure who they were or where they were meant to belong, surrounded by a foreign language.

“Look,” Eideann said, and he glanced to her to see her looking up into the sky. “The stars are out.”

“It is night. They are always there at night.” 

“I missed them,” she told him, considering him. “In the Deep Roads, I missed them. All I wanted was to see stars.” He stared.

“There is an Archdemon and a Blight threatening and you are distracted by stars?”

“Distracted? No. Grounded. Yes,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. “They remind me of how much of the world there really is, how small I am compared to all I still must do. It feels…like the tide,” she smiled at him with that secretive smile like she was laughing at him again, and he brushed it aside. She was trying to annoy him. Or else she really was as fanciful as he believed her to be. “Are they different? In Seheron? The stars?” 

“Yes,” he said. Very different, and at strange angles. Even the sky was foreign here. She was quiet a moment, and then finally spoke again.

“We will find your sword, Sten. You will see your home again,” she said quietly.

“When we reach the town in the morning, I will begin my search,” Sten agreed quietly. Eideann just nodded, then glanced back the way they had come before turning away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair talks to Eideann about his family; the Grey Wardens arrive in Redcliffe to find all is not right; Eideann meets with Bann Teagan and learns what has been happening in her absence from court; the group begins to mount a defense of the village; Sten is finally reunited with his lost sword; Eideann learns of Arl Howe's involvement at Redcliffe; Oghren runs into his old flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence (not much)
> 
> Comments always welcome. :) 
> 
> The way this ended up playing out, this chapter is a bit longer than usual, so enjoy. :)

Eideann had hardly slept. She was up before the others, excepting Shayle who never slept of course. She dressed in her Warden armor, and then in her mental armor, and stared blearily out in the direction of the gate.

The sky was grey and stormy, and she could smell the coming rain. She brushed her hair from her face and considered the clouds above. 

Today was the day she shifted. Today was the day she stepped into that new role.

And then there was Alistair. And that changed everything.

Oh, her heart ached to think on it, to try to place the ways in which it could tear them apart. There were too many options, too many choices, too many outcomes. Alistair was Alistair, home and everything she needed and wanted now. But there was a Blight that could yet kill them. And a Civil War that would just as easily do the same. And she would have to weigh her choices very carefully in the day to come.

But her evening of non-sleep had given her the chance to think. She had spent most of the night beside the fire, long enough she had a crick in her neck from trying to sleep that way, and the result had been a plan. 

The pieces she had missed in her own plan of action. She knew already that Loghain had made himself regent, despite the fact Anora had been Cailin’s Queen and had headed the country for the past five years. She was not yet certain what the particulars were for his regency, but she would soon find out. 

He planned to keep that power, of course, because he was Cailin’s father-in-law. And that was where he was wrong. Anora may have wed Cailin, but they had never had children, and that meant her claim to the throne now was tenuous. If circumstances were different, she would have no problem continuing that legitimacy. But they were not. 

Alistair was a direct descendant of Maric. And Anora, either willingly or because she could not stop him had allowed Loghain to seize the throne of Ferelden and remove Cailin’s top advisors in one fell swoop. She had not heard anything of the fate of Leonas Bryland, the third of Cailin’s top people, but there were rumors that Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim had been slain at Ostagar. 

She knew for a fact that he had never been there.

It was no secret that Urien’s son, Vaughan, had been an ill fit. He had a shadowed reputation, even among noble circles, and that meant that he was probably far worse than she really knew. She knew as well that there had always been a rift between Vaughan and Urien, and simply put, Vaughan was said to be a bit power mad. It worried her that the general description appeared to match that of Arl Howe and Loghain’s other advisors.

And then there was the real question of what _had_ happened to Arl Urien, since he had never arrived at Ostagar. And she had her suspicions, a mere shadow of a thought but growing, what the answer was.

Her primary analysis was that, with the flood of refugees from the south overrunning loyal bannorns like Waking Sea, where her cousin Alfstanna was Bann, and with the systemic removal of all those who had been closest to Cailin and trusted by the throne, the picture was bleak. Even if she was willing to believe that Anora had not permitted or known of her father’s workings, and she was not wholly convinced of that either, there were too many big connections to disregard. It proved to her one thing:

Keep a Mac Tir on the throne and Ferelden would fall to chaos. So she was left then with really only one choice: the one that Alistair hated. And she could not even tell him of it yet. Not until she knew, for certain, she could swing a Landsmeet. 

Loghain had painted them traitors. She had not forgotten that much. And the dangerous men like Loghain, Howe, and Vaughan may very well surround the Queen now. She had coddled together an army, certainly, but without the political sway of Redcliffe and the Bannorn she could still reach, the path forward would be far more difficult.

“Did you not sleep?” She looked up to see Alistair, standing watching her where he had emerged from his tent. He had been expecting her to join him, she knew. And she had not done so. She had needed to think, to make her decisions, and to come to terms with the new information now. And she was still hurt by his inability to say anything sooner.

“I had to rework the plan,” she said simply. He considered her a moment, then bent to collect his pack from his tent and kick down the poles. He dug about in the pack until he found two apples and he held one out for her.

“Sorry for making things complicated,” he said, and she shook her head.

“It isn’t that. It’s…it’s hard to explain.” He looked at her with his amber eyes and she sighed as he took a seat beside her. “Alistair, for what comes next, I need you to trust me. You have to. If you don’t, the best outcome is one of us ends up dead.”

“Cheerful. Good morning to you too,” he said and took a bite of the apple. “I do trust you, you know.” She just gave him a silent look and he sighed. “So…Redcliffe. I saw Morrigan slip out while you were watching the embers. Everyone’s starting to wake up now. What’s the plan for when we arrive?”

“I bang on the door, announce myself as the Teyrna of Highever, throw some magic dust over Arl Eamon, and demand that they ready the armies. Done,” she said simply, then sniffed. “Or…we actually have to do more work. Again.” He smiled.

“Oh is that all?” he said, but his smile cut through the gloom of the morning and made her smile in return.

 _Love is ultimately selfish,_ she remembered, and her smile slipped slightly.

“What comes next will be difficult. Even if getting Arl Eamon well and Redcliffe marching happens easily, we have to walk into the dragon’s lair to face Loghain in Denerim, and he is still Anora’s father. I am the Teyrna of Highever, but I was the second child, and I am not my parents, Alistair. This will be…a difficult fight.”

“I understand,” he told her. “And I believe in you.” She sighed, and he nodded again, glancing at his apple. She still had not touched her own. “Eideann, I…told you once I never felt at home until I was with the Grey Wardens,” he began, and she looked at him then, holding the apple in both hands. “I…” He looked up at her. “I have a sister.” 

“I know.”

“No, I mean…I have a sister. A real sister. Her name is Goldanna.”

“I know. She was there…in the Fade…when we went to the Circle. Her and her…many, many children.” His look slipped a little, and then drew a breath.

“Yes,” he finally said. “After I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking, and I found out she’s still alive, in Denerim.” 

“Half-sister of Maric’s bastard?” Eideann sighed, then took a bite of her apple. Alistair was watching her with something she could not read in his eyes.

“She’s the only real family I have left, not also mixed up in the royal thing.” He shook his head. “With the Blight coming and everything, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to see her. Maybe I can help her, warn her about the danger, I don’t know.” Eideann watched him a moment, and she saw the lost look in his eyes. Clinging to anything, anything normal after the night before. This he desperately wanted with all his heart. She thought of that dream in the Fade, his deepest desires for family and home, and nodded.

“If you want to,” she said in a measured voice, “we can try.” She did not have the heart to say no or question his open-faced idealism. 

“Could we?” He seemed to brighten like the sun when he said that, even as raindrops finally started to fall in soft clinking noises against their armor. “I’d appreciate that. I…I know she lives near the market.” Eideann shook her head with a soft laugh.

“Yes, we can look,” she assured him. But her own mind went to Fergus, and she felt the dull ache of unfinished business and loss, and her smile vanished. She bit into her apple to hide the frown.

The others were up and about not long after, and they packed the horses up as best they could before breaking camp. Redcliffe was named for the soil and the red rocks that descended down into the sloping and endless depths of Lake Calenhad – though not so endless, since Eideann and Alistair and Oghren and Shayle had wandered right beneath them in the Deep Roads. They rode through the first line of defenses, a large crumbling wall built at the same time as the castle, which was strangely unmanned, and began their descent into the village. 

There was a path along the cliff face, bordered by rocks and stone and an old windmill that was turning softly in the cloudy sky. It too was unmanned.

“Where is everyone?” Wynne asked quietly. And that was when Morrigan returned.

“’Tis bleak indeed,” she reported, straightening her clothing and gathering her gear from Eideann. “I flew over the entire castle, and saw nothing. But a few signs of life down in the village show there are people alive still, mostly around the Chantry. But there are a lot of pyres, Eideann.” 

“Pyres?” Eideann glanced to Alistair who had a grim look. “Has there been a plague? The Arl’s illness perhaps?” 

“We will find out soon enough,” Eideann said grimly. 

The town felt strangely empty, but Morrigan had been correct when she said there were still signs of life. Near the Chantry they had set up pyres and there was a mass burning of bodies that sent a reeking stench into the air of cooked flesh. Eideann led her group towards the Chantry, Alistair her close second. 

A man, tending the flames and looking haggard, glanced up at them with tired eyes. His lean face made him look like he had been going without sleep or proper meals for days. He stepped back from the pyre, stooped a little from the work, and blinked a moment as if they were not real. And then he drew in a shaking breath.

“Have you come to help us?” he asked in a voice as thin as thread. 

“What is happening here?” Eideann asked him, standing straighter. This man needed confidence now. He looked crestfallen.

“So you…don’t know? Has nobody out there heard?” Redcliffe was the most prosperous trade town in the lower Bannorn. It seemed ridiculous no word had escaped. Unless no word could. 

“I have heard Arl Eamon is sick,” Eideann told him carefully. The man shook his head, desperation clear as he raised his hands. 

“He could be dead for all we know! No one’s heard from the castle in days! We’re under attack!” he insisted.

“Under attack? Redcliffe is the most defensible fortress in Ferelden. How was it breached?” 

“They didn’t come from out there!” the man said angrily. “They came from _inside_ the castle!” He had a haunted look to his eyes. “Monsters come out of the castle every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting. And dying.” 

“Apparently,” Morrigan said flatly, “everyone seems to agree that a Blight is the perfect time to start killing each other. Marvelous, really.” Eideann sighed. 

“Where are all of Redcliffe’s Knights? Where they all sent away?” she asked him carefully.

“We’ve no army to defend us,” the man said, tears in his eyes, “no Arl, and no king to send us help! So many are dead, and those left are terrified they’re next.” 

“Hold on,” Alistair said, shaking his head. “What is this evil that’s attacking you?” The man broke down.

“They’re our friends, our family, anyone who is dead. At first it was just the guards at the castle, and then it was anyone they killed down here. We have to burn the bodies now.” Tears fell and Eideann reached out to touch his arm, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“We are going to stop this,” she told him earnestly. “I am Teyrna Eideann Cousland of Highever, and Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I will stop this.” He nodded gratefully. “Now,” she said gently, “who is in charge here.”

“Bann Teagan. He’s all that’s holding us together,” the man said and drew back. Eideann nodded, giving him a firm look.

“Take me to him,” she said, and he gave her a peasant’s bow and then led them in toward’s the Chantry. 

Eideann felt her heart pounding.

The Chantry was a small building, older than many of those in Ferelden, cramped and full of red carpets that were worn by age and keeping. Stained glass showed effigies of Andraste and her Disciples, and filtered the light into colored splotches across the room. The villagers were living there, laid out on cots and in corners, and a small medical center had been established. Eideann took one look at it, then back at Wynne and Morrigan, who nodded and immediately went to the Sisters gathered there to assist. Alistair looked pained.

“Zevran, I need to know what is happening at that castle,” Eideann said softly, and he too slipped away. She heard the Chantry door shut behind him. 

People were sobbing in the upended pews or staring blankly in grieve and disbelief. At the end of the Chantry, bent over a table filled with papers, was a man she knew so well.

The Redcliffe villager approached him, and Eideann gave them some distance. Teagan looked to him as the villager drew alongside the table, and then stood up, glancing back over his shoulder.

His eyes went wide as he saw her. He stared a moment, as though he could not believe it, and then, thanking the villager, he turned away from his table and descended from the dais steps to them.

He came right for her, looking at her eyes only an instant before pulling her into his arms and heavy breath.

“Maker’s blood, Eideann. With your hair…I didn’t recognize you! How? How are you…? We thought, when we heard of Highever…” 

“Teagan…” Eideann breathed, arms creeping about his back in return as she buried her face in his shoulder a moment, breathing in his scent, familiar. He and Fergus had always used the same soap. Fergus had spent a lifetime trying to copy Teagan. 

“Maker’s blood. What are you doing here?” Teagan asked, pulling back and holding her at arm’s length to consider her a second time. He looked at her eyes again, tears in his own, and then her armor before shaking his head. “A Grey Warden? Maker, were you at Ostagar, Eideann?” And then his eyes looked up to the others, and he froze. Alistair, looking uncertain, exchanged a cautious gaze.

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” he said quietly, “though last time we met I was much younger and covered in mud.” Recognition dawned in Teagan’s eyes.

“Alistair?” His voice sounded hoarse and tested. “It _is_ you, isn’t it?! You’re alive! This is wonderful news! Maker’s breath, we thought you had been killed with the other Grey Wardens.” Alistair shook his head a little, a small smile of relief forming on his lips, and he started as Teagan embraced him too. 

“Still alive, yes, though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it,” he told Teagan who released him and shook his head, a smile breaking across his face.

“Indeed,” he said. “Loghain would have us believe all the Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.” His voice was cold.

“What have you heard?” Eideann asked quietly, and he sighed, beckoning them to follow him. 

When they were safely holed up in the austere chambers of the Revered Mother, half of them sitting in whatever small amount of furniture was in the room, Teagan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and considered them seriously.

“Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don’t believe it,” she said simply. “It’s an act of a desperate man.” His eyes fixed on Eideann. “And believe it when I say desperate. First Arl Urien went missing without ever reaching Ostagar and no one knows why. Then Loghain flees from Ostagar and tells everyone Cailin was killed by the Grey Wardens, and he names himself Regent. He summons us all the Landsmeet chamber to demand we supply the forces for a new army under his command and will brook no questions. Then we hear news that the Couslands have been killed at Highever by a popular uprising, and Arl Howe has been sent in to restore order. I wrote to Eamon, but never received a reply, so I rode directly for Redcliffe to see him myself, but when I arrive I learn the dead rising in the night to kill the living and no one has been able to reach the castle in weeks. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts.” He shook his head. “These people are not fighters. They’re fishermen, farmers, shopkeepers, Chantry Sisters. They are not protected, because the Arlessa sent the knights away, and only a few have returned. This is all that is left, of hundreds. Each night the walking dead come, with greater numbers. With Cailin dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help. I have a feeling tonight’s assault will be the worst yet.” He glowered at the floor, wiping his hands over his face and heaving a sigh. “I do not know what else we can do.”

Eideann rose, pacing across the chamber, arms crossed, and then she looked to Alistair, whose eyes were cautious, guarded, like he thought she might be contemplating saying no.

“We can help you drive them back,” Eideann finally said. “I have two mages currently in the main hall treating the wounded. One is a Spirit Healer brought to look at Eamon, assuming we can reach him. I have sent another of my men ahead to see what we can learn about the castle. He’s quick and good at getting in and out of places unseen. Everyone else here is trained and deadly.” Teagan was watching her with narrowed eyes, as if he had never seen her before. “Leliana, I want you to round up what villagers you can, and see if you can teach a few of them to shoot. If anyone can, it’s you.” The bard nodded. “Sten, Oghren, Alistair, we’ll go door to door and see if there is anything in any of the houses or shops we can use to mount a defense.” Oghren sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and Alistair rose slowly. 

“And I?” Shayle asked, tone flat. 

“I need you to help us get some rocks,” Eideann said.

“Rocks? Why does it need rocks?”

“We’re going to control the battlefield.” Teagan rose, staring at her.

“Go,” Eideann told her companions. “Get moving. They attack at dark, I thought they said.” And the others set about her orders, all except Alistair, who stared at her and gave a grateful nod. Teagan’s eyes were bright, and he gazed at her, then shook his head.

“Eideann Cousland leading armies. If Fergus could have seen this…” Eideann gave a small smile.

“It’s hard to believe it myself,” she admitted.

“Are you certain you can do this,” the Bann asked her, and she grinned.

“Teagan, I’ve battled darkspawn in the Deep Roads and the surface, ended a werewolf curse, helped to settle the dwarven election, and purged abominations threatening the Circle of Magi. Oh, and we killed a dragon-witch and cleared ghosts, demons, and a host of undead wardens from an ancient Warden outpost. I assure you. This seems quite easy in comparison.” Teagan stared and Alistair smiled at him.

“Cailin cannot help now, and Loghain won’t, but we will, Bann Teagan, I promise,” he said firmly. Teagan nodded, thanking him, and Alistair touched Eideann’s arm before crossing to the door and following the others out. 

“I’ve put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is out in the square. Ser Perth, one of the remaining knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle,” Teagan told her. And then he shook his head. “Maker, I still cannot believe that the girl who used to climb trees and throw apples at stable-boys is the same one standing before me now, all grown up.” She bowed her head a little, then wet her lips.

“Teagan, I…I’m sorry. About Cailin. And Fergus. And…Maker…All of it.” He shook his head.

“They would not want us grieving when we should be acting,” he told her quietly. “I only wish…I wish there were some way to bring them home again, send them off properly.”

“We returned to Ostagar, in the middle of winter,” Eideann told him gently. “We found Cailin. And we built him a pyre.” She drew a deep breath. The day they had said goodbye to Cailin was the day she had gotten her rose, the petals scattered and faded in the bottom of her pack. Alistair… “Loghain sent assassins after us. I confronted his men at Orzammar. By now he knows I am moving against him, Teagan. If this does not end well…if this…”

“Teyrna Cousland,” he silenced her with a single look, giving her a curt bow. “Whatever happens, you will have my support.” 

“Have you heard from anyone else? Do you know what it looks like out there?”

“Alfstanna was furious when she learned Howe had taken over Highever, but she’s got a Bannorn full of refugees trying to flee across the Waking Sea. She can hardly manage her own Bannorn. And Irminric has vanished.” He shook his head. “I know there are many who are wary, and many who are angry. You do have support. The real question is can we rally enough of them to bring down Loghain?” She could hear the anger laced in his gentle voice and she nodded. 

“I will ride on Denerim and sieze the capital if I must. Highever did not revolt.” Her voice was laced with rage.

“I know,” he assured her. “Now, I will set about getting the remaining villagers here in the Chantry. We will mount our final defense here.” She nodded, then clasped his wrist, feeling his pulse beneath her fingers. He met her gaze.

“This ends tonight, Teagan. I promise,” she said, Highever brogue washing over them both, and then she turned away and left him there to deal with the Chantry.

Alistair was waiting for her outside the Chantry with a man he introduced as the Mayor. Murdock had a massive mustache which seemed to be trying to eat the lower half of his face, but he looked her over with sharp eyes and then and grimaced, getting quickly to business.

Some of the villagers had some training, but their supplies were running low and their gear damaged. The local blacksmith was being uncooperative, so while Oghren and Sten went about raiding houses for anything of use, Eideann crossed to the smithy with Alistair and hammered on the door.

“Go away!” a miserable voice called back, muffled through the wood. “Curse you! Leave me in peace! You’ve already taken everything out of my stores! There’s nothing left!” 

“Except a coward!” Eideann called back. “Open this door now, or I will break it down!”

“Be gone, I said!” the blacksmith called back angrily. Eideann glared, then shook her head.

“Alistair, stand back,” she told him and gave him a brief moment to get out of the way before she kicked in the locks. The door bounced in, smashing against the wall and rebounding. And she forced her way through the gap. 

The entire place stank of stale ale and unwashed bodies. Alistair stepped in after her, wrinkling his nose, then eyed up the blacksmith who was leaning over his forge, glaring at them.

“Somebody’s been drinking,” Alistair muttered in a singsong voice, and Eideann sighed. The bleary-eyed smith stood up and crossed his arms, wavering a little on his feet.

“You just come barging into my home?!” he spat. “I’ve no money and nothing of value to take, as you can plainly see. So if you’re here to beat on a sad old man, then all I ask is you get on with it. I don’t have much to live for as it is.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Eideann said coldly, eyeing up the forge before crossing to the center of the room. “I am not here to rob you, unless that proves necessary. I need to talk with you.” He glared, then hunched his shoulders.

“Is that so? Then talk then,” he grumbled, reaching for a bottle of strong Antivan brandy and swilling from it. Maker, he was worse than Oghren. 

“Do you have any idea what is going on here?” Eideann said firmly. The blacksmith’s mouth twisted into a grimace.

“You mean why’re these creatures attacking the village? Something corrupts the castle,” the drunk man said, swaying a little. “My Valena used to say the Arlessa was up to something, hiding things from her husband. I told Valena she was imaginging things, but maybe the Arlessa _was_ involved in something? Blood magic, maybe.” Eideann considered it a moment, looking about the shop. Cobwebs hung in the corners and the heat from the forge was making her sweat in her armor. It had made the blacksmith sweat too, and he reeked enough to repel the dead, so she supposed that was why he was still alive.

Blood magic was a possibility. She had seen the way the dead had walked at Soldier’s Peak and the Circle Tower, and in the halls of the ruins in the Brecilian Forest. Where the Veil was weakened by blood magic, spirits seized whatever bodies they could. 

“What else did you daughter say?” she asked the blacksmith, who had slumped into a chair and propped his feet up on his forge to glare at her.

“She thought the Arlessa was having an affair with some tutor she hired for the boy, Connor.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s lost to me! I can’t do anything about her warnings now!” An affair? The Arlessa was Orlesian, the daughter of Redcliffe’s Orlesian occupiers who had broken with her own father to marry Eamon for love, much to everyone’s chagrin. They said Eamon had been banished from the royal court for months. 

But Eamon was older, and sick, and Eideann did not know the Arlessa well enough to make a decision of such magnitude.

The blacksmith shuffled his feet on the forge and stared at the flames, eyes swimming with tears, bottle resting on his chest. 

“My girl is one of the Arlessa’s maids. She’s trapped up ther ein the castle, but the mayor won’t send anyone for her. I don’t _care_ what happens to the village or me or anyone!” he sniffed. Eideann planted her hands on her hips. He glared back. “Everyone knows we aren’t making it through the night,” he spat, spittle flying from his mouth. “Or are you going to save us?” Eideann ignored his sarcasm.

“Those creatures out there, they’re undead. They come from the castle every night, and they grow in number every night, because they kill people down here every single night. They are not monsters. They are the corpses of people you know, and love. And your Valena might be one of them. The only way to save your daughter if she is still alive in that castle is to battle this army before it gets larger and everyone dies. I don’t care if you think everyone should die, but your Valena is not worth the life of every other person in this village. No one is above that. Everyone must weigh that choice. What you are doing, by sitting here rotting away in your own filth, is condemning all those people to die because _you_ believe your Valena wants a father who will let people be murdered rather than work to save her.” She reached down and pulled the bottle from his hands and set it on the table again. “Do you honestly believe she’d be proud of this? Of you? You’re pathetic.” He stared a moment, and then he tore his eyes away, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his feet fall to the floor.

“I want a promise!” he demanded. “Promise me that you’ll look for her and bring her back to me if you can.” Eideann pulled back, standing over him arms crossed, and then she closed her eyes with a sigh.

“I will bring her back if I can,” she said, “but you will get to work. Now.” He turned to stare at her again and then force dhismelf to rise. And Eideann turned her back on him and left him to his work. Outside, Murdock was waiting. Eideann fixed him with a grim look. “Get your men in there,” she said. “He’s working, but he might set the place aflame before he does any good.” 

“Warden!” she looked over the see Oghren crossing to them, Sten at his side, a stark pair between them so short and so tall together. “We found some barrels of oil. Figure we can burn the blighters before they reach the defenses.” Eideann nodded, then pointed up the hill to where Shale was hauling stones from the cliff-side path.

“I want the oil set up between the rocks, trap them in. See it’s done,” she told him and Oghren nodded, then turned back to the row of shops they had been searching to go and fetch the oil.

“What now?” Alistair asked her, and she sighed.

“Scavenging,” she told him, and ushered him to the next row of homes along the pier. 

“I used to play on the docks,” he told her after the third house with no new supplies save rags that would do for bandages in a pinch. “I would run up and down the pier. Once I knocked a fisherman into the water as he was trying to tie up his boat. He was furious with me after that.” Eideann smiled slightly, then shook her head.

“I used to run on the docks at Highever, whenever I could escape the castle,” she said. “They’d send the guards to find me, but they always had to bring Rory and Fergus along, because only they knew where I hid. The guards never had a chance. Rory and Fergus never told them.” She sighed. 

“Where did you hide?” he asked her, breaking into the next house with his shoulder and peering into the gloom for anything that may help. 

“There was a small gap where you could slip under the docks. I used to sit there in the sand and the rocks, kick off my shoes, and put my toes in the Waking Sea.” She shook her head. “It was cold.” He laughed and she did too.

And then they heard a rustling noise.

“What was that?” Eideann asked, and Alistair shook his head. They froze, listening, and heard it again from the room beyond. Eideann drew her sword, and Alistair did likewise, and they carefully crept forward. The room was empty, but there was a large armoire standing against one wall. Eideann exchanged a glance with Alistair, then slowly reached for the handle. And then she yanked open the door. 

“Ahhh!” She stood up, staring, at the boy with wide and terrified eyes staring down her sword, and then she sheathed the blade, shaking her head.

“Maker, I thought you were one of those things. Are you alright?” she asked him, and he stared a moment before looking between them. Then he nodded, and she beckoned to him. “Come on. Out of the cupboard.” He was young, maybe no older than Oren, and had the same color hair, brown like Fergus. He considered her warily. 

“Please don’t hurt me,” he told her in a whisper, and she smiled shaking her head.

“No, no, I won’t, I promise. I’m here to help defend the village.” She sighed. “What are you doing in here?”

He gave her a distrustful look, then sighed and explained he had been trying to find his father’s sword when he had heard them coming up the street and locked himself in for safety. When they had broken down the house door, he had hidden in the cupboard, frightened. 

Eideann and Alistair offered to help him find the sword, and then they escorted him back to the Chantry, Alistair holding his hand and Eideann shaking her head.

After depositing the child off, they turn back to the houses closest to the wharf, and begin again their systemic raiding. House by house they cleared Redcliffe of anything that could help sustain the villagers and arm or armor their defense. When they came to the final house, Eideann reached to try the handle, but it too was locked. So she kicked in the door as she had done at the blacksmiths. 

The room was not empty. 

Within, a dwarf with cold eyes was glaring between them and his door. He had two human lackeys, equally mean-looking, who rose to their feet slowly, one of them reaching carefully for a knife.

“Wonderful. Intruders,” the dwarf grumbled. “I hope you’ve a good reason for breaking and entering into my house.” Eideann glanced about and saw he had several loaves of bread and barrels of salted fish, as well as a basket full of vegetables, as if he had raided the grocers. She gave him a suspicious look.

“I didn’t realize anyone was in,” she said simply, then shook her head.

“Apology accepted,” the dwarf muttered, even though she had not said any such thing. “The name’s Dwyn, pleased to meet you. Now get out.” 

“Dwyn?” Eideann asked, raising an eyebrow. She knew that name. She had heard it at Orzammar. She suddenly felt a little tingle in her stomach as she realized this was the dwarf Faryn had mentioned when she and Sten had gone looking for his sword in the Orzammar open-air market. “I don’t suppose you happen to have any Qunari swords?” Alistair glanced to her, and Dwyn’s eyes narrowed.

“Now why would you be interested in that?” Dwyn asked. Eideann glanced back towards the village through the door, and motioned with her arm. 

“See that tall man over there. He’s a Qunari. His name is Sten. And it is _his_ sword.” Dwyn stared through his doorframe, then glanced to her shiftily.

“You know, Faryn didn’t mention the giant he took it from was alive…” He let out a sigh, then his eyes slid to hers and he sniffed. “And, err, how much is it worth to you exactly?” he asked after a moment. Eideann gave him a dazzling smile, carefully pulling Duncan’s dagger from its space at the small of her back and carefully twisting it in her hands.

“How’s your life sound?” she said quietly. Dwyn’s face twisted into a frown, and he crossed his arms, sighing.

“Excellent idea,” he muttered, giving up, waving for one of his lackeys to go into the back room for the blade. The lackey returned with the sword, a great beast of a thing, which Eideann accepted carefully in spite of its weight. Then Dwyn glared at her. “Now, why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Oh I don’t think so,” Eideann said, shaking her head. “Your door’s not going to keep anyone out anymore, I’m afraid.” He was silent, glaring, and she lowered the Qunari blade to fix him with a look. “You should be out there helping defend the village.” 

“Thanks,” he told her in a flat tone, “but I’ll take my chances in here. Everyone else can run around in the open, waiting to die.” Eideann glanced to the two lackeys, then drew a breath, tilting her head slightly.

“The way I see it, you have two options,” she said simply. “Die out there, or die in here, now.” Dwyn glared at her, then sighed, staring at his door.

“Fine.”

“Thank you,” Eideann said pleasantly. He gave a grunt, and she motioned to Alistair, turning away. “Come, there is much to do.”

She took the sword then, carrying it up the line of defenses that Oghren and Sten and Shayle were helping to build with Ser Perth and his men. She climbed the steps, and Alistair followed her, staring at the sword.

“Eideann, if you give that back to him, do you think he will stay?” he asked quietly, and she smiled, nodding.

“Watch and find out,” she said.

Sten was helping to roll a boulder into place to narrow the path down to the town from the castle. She stopped a short way from him, and then, holding the sword in both hands, gently called to him.

“Sten. I think I have something of yours.” He turned and froze, staring at her, at the sword in her hands, and then slowly he stood up to his full height and turned, crossing the distance between them. His hand reached for the hilt of the sword, and he hesitated only a moment over it before he closed his fingers over it. He lifted the sword like it was nothing, and then stared at the blade as it glinted in the firelight.

“Strange,” he finally said after a moment, bowing his hand and lowering the sword into his other hand as well. “I had almost forgotten it.” His eyes slid up to meet hers. “Completion.” 

She smiled slightly and nodded, and he too smiled ever so slightly back. She had never seen him smile before. But when he spoke she heard the emotion in his voice.

“Are you sure you are a Grey Warden?” he asked her, and she blinked, confused that they were back to this conversation again, but he shook his head. “I think you must be an Ashkaari to find a single lost blade in a country at war. I would thank you for this if I knew how.” 

That was probably the most compliment she would ever get out of the man, so she smiled and looked to the preparations a moment before sighing. 

“So, what will you do now?” she asked him as Shayle rolled another stone down the hill and Oghren splattered the ground with the oil.

“My sword is in my hand again,” Sten replied. “I should put it to use.” She raised an eyebrow and this time he actually did smile, a real smile, and considered her wryly. “And I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the Arishok if the Blight were ended, don’t you agree?”

“So you’re staying then?” Eideann asked, crossing her arms. He raised his chin, and all his pride was there then, filling him with purpose again. And it was magnificent to see.

“I am one of the Beresaad,” he told her. “I have never abandoned a field with the battle unmet.” 

“Glad to have you, Sten,” she told him. His look was considerate then.

“Indeed, it isn’t every Grey Warden who has his own Beresaad.” 

“I’m a woman,” she said with a sigh, and he turned away. 

“One of those things still cannot be true,” he told her, but he said it in the tone of voice that she knew was just winding her up. “I will see you reach the Archdemon,” he told her, smile fading, expression serious. “I have been mistaken.” Her smile faded too and she glanced sidelong to him, which was a feat since he was so much taller than she. “You are a soldier worthy to stand among the Beresaad. I did not think so when we first met.” She wondered at the admission a moment and then looked away, uncrossing her arms. 

“What changed your mind?” she asked, and he shifted, armor creaking.

“You did, of course. The day will come when the Arishok sends us here. On that day, I will not look to find you on the battlefield.” Eideann bit at her lip, and then nodded. 

“I will not look for you either,” she said simply. 

“I will not forget what you have done, Kadan,” he said, and then turned back to the preparations.

Alistair nearby gave a low whistle.

“You made him smile,” he said with a pointed look.

“Jealous?” Eideann asked, smiling herself, and then sighed and looked towards the Chantry. “Come. We must prepare the Chantry.” She looked back. “Shayle, can you come with us to set up defenses below?” The golem turned and stared a moment, then stomped over to join them. Heading down the hill with a golem behind her felt like she was outrunning an avalanche or a rockslide, but Shayle was not out of control and was instead doing a fair job of hammering flat simple steps in the clay earth where she walked. Eideann, Alistair, and Shayle worked to heave a number of pieces of furniture, felled trees, and larger, heavier goods to create barricades to replace those that had been damaged the night before, and then they built a bonfire in the center of the barricades. 

It made Eideann think of Duncan’s fire, burning in the heart of the king’s camp, and she lit it with that thought in mind. Even with the army defeated, evil had fled from the bonfire. She hoped that this would help them do the same. 

“Well,” Alistair said, wiping off his torn hands from their work and glancing between them. “Shall we see who wants a late lunch?” Shayle gave a grunt of annoyance, turning away. 

“Lady Cousland!” It was Zevran standing up on the cliffs. He grimaced and beckoned to her. “ _Bella_ , I have news of the castle.” Eideann exchanged looks with Alistair who nodded and turned away to gather the militia and their companions for lunch. Eideann crossed to Zevran, who was a little breathless as he approached, as if he had hurried back.

“What did you find?” He grimaced.

“The courtyard is full of the dead. They are still. The spell does not appear to work during the day. If we go in now…”

“If we go in now,” Eideann said, glancing up at the sky to gauge the time, “there is no guarantee we could stop the next wave, even if we found and killed whatever is the cause, before dusk. I can’t risk destroying this entire village.”

“The Arl is nowhere to be found, but I could not get into the castle proper,” Zevran said, considering her.

“Any idea what started the first wave? What killed the original guards?” 

“Nothing, but there are demons about, and it would only take one to begin killing most people. Granted, we are not most people. We are awesome.” He grinned devilishly, and she sighed.

“I won’t go until dawn. I will help these people,” she told him. “So we will eat, finish our preparations, and try to sleep before things get worse.” 

“I did see an inn up the way that appears to be in operation,” Zevran smiled, so Eideann waved him off to find the others with Alistair and then looked to Shayle. “Oh Shayle, how do I keep ending up in these sorts of messes?”

“Eating in inns? I have no idea. It must be because it is a squishy flesh creature that much consume food to survive,” Shayle muttered.

“So were you once,” Eideann pointed out, rolling her shoulders and then heading up the hill towards the inn Zevran had pointed out.

“And I am so glad to have left that behind,” the golem replied drily.

***

The inn was a clean and tidy establishment called the Gull and Lantern, and apparently a popular place to rest during the day. Somehow the place was still open, and she found out why not long after meeting the unpleasant innkeeper, who was busy charging a fortune for water alone while everyone else was dying while fighting for their home. Eideann quickly took the innkeeper, a heavy-set man called Lloyd, to task, and informed him that he could either feed the village for free or join her on the front lines that evening. After that, things went fairly simply.

The man had an entire cellar packed with food. And it was not just bread and staples, but actual real food. As soon as news got out there was real food to eat, half the village turned out, though thankfully not all at once. A few of the soldiers turned to drinking, and that meant Lloyd had to call out his extra hands to serve drinks.

Oghren sidled over to the drinking party and promptly scolded them all, which had been both surprising and amusing to Eideann. After all, if anyone was going to tell someone to stop drinking, it should not be Oghren. And yet, there he was, almost sober himself for once, and glaring at them all until the alcohol was put away.

Eideann picked her way through a plate of bread and cheese, which kept disappearing whenever she looked away. She knew full well why, because she was sitting next to Alistair, and she let him get away with it for a few tries before finally drawing Duncan’s dagger and slamming it into the table between his fingers. He shot back, startled, and she smirked at him.

“Eat you own,” she told him simply and he stared, then meekly backed away, and then she was able to actually get on with eating her dinner.

Leliana brought in her archers for some refreshment as well, and sank into a seat beside Eideann while they all took to helping themselves to a basket of apples. 

“How are they coming along?” she asked, and she sighed, helping herself to some of Eideann’s cheese as well.

“As well as can be expected,” she replied quietly. “I don’t want them on the front line.”

“I need at least some archers up there,” Eideann said. Leliana sighed again, looking about the room, and then she paused, eyes narrowed and turned back to Eideann.

“Back corner,” she said, and beckoned for the serving girl who was currently dealing with Zevran. They both came over, and Zevran grinned.

“Ah, _Bella_ ,” he said to Eideann, leaning on her shoulder and motioning to the serving girl. “This is Bella.” He grinned and Eideann sighed.

“You’re name is Bella as well?” the girl asked her and Eideann shook her head.

“I’m afraid not,” she replied. “He just insists on calling me that.” Bella smiled, then turned to Leliana, who ordered a mug of water and her own cheese, and took the excuse of ordering to glance back at the corner again. 

Eideann looked as well, carefully, and saw an elf, sitting with his back to them, hunched over a table in a darkened corner.

“There’s something about him,” Leliana said quietly. “I know a spy when I see one.” Eideann drew a breath, pushing away her plate, which Alistair immediately took from her hands. The serving maid Bella came back with Leliana’s food, and Eideann caught her arm.

“Bella, what can you tell us about the elf in the corner?” she asked. The serving maid looked about, then sighed, shaking her head.

“Not much,” she answered, clearing away a few of the things on the table. “He’s very quiet. Says his name’s Berwick and he’s here to meet his brother, but I think he’s lying. He’s a bit…creepy.” Eideann nodded, then thanked her and let her go. Bella smiled slightly and turned, a few cups and a plate balanced in her arms as she made her way through the other tenants. Eideann rose before Leliana could stop her and went across the room to the elf.

“So,” she said, causing him to jump. She heard a few of her companions, Alistair and Leliana and Zevran, join her. Berwick eyed them up. “I hear you’re Berwick.” 

“How do you…?” the elf shook his head. “I’m not here to talk.”

“You’re simply here to act suspiciously, I take it?” Zevran said behind her. Berwick’s nose wrinkled.

“What? I’m…not acting suspiciously!”

“Oh? Now that _was_ convincing,” Zevran said, and Eideann caught his wry look from the corner of his eyes. Even Alistair had managed to look threatening behind her. She carefully sank into a seat beside the elf. 

“So, Berwick,” she said after a moment. He was watching her now nervously. “You picked an interesting time and place to meet with your brother…”

“My…yes, my brother.” He was sitting up so straight it was like he had a metal rod for a spine. Eideann smiled.

“What are you hiding?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Berwick insisted. “Look, you’re very pretty and all, but I was told to…err…” He turned away abruptly. “Just leave me alone.” He moved to push himself up, hands on the table, but Duncan’s dagger slammed down between his fingers, the crossbar of the hilt pinning his fingers to the wood.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said simply, her smile gone. “Start talking.” 

“About what?!” he demanded, trying to pull his hand free. “Just because you’re a Grey Warden doesn’t mean you can go around threatening people!” Eideann bent forward until their noses were a hand-span apart. 

“This,” she said quietly, “will be a lot easier if you just tell me what you’re hiding.” He stared at her, then drew back, sinking back into his seat with a look of despair.

“I’ll tell you!” he said. “Just…don’t hurt me.” She sat back in her chair and pulled her dagger from the tabletop. He immediately pulled his hands into his lap and rubbed the fingers where they had been caught beneath the crossbar, his look sour. “This is more than I bargained for,” he muttered. “Look, they just paid me to watch the castle and send word if anything should change. But they never said anything about monsters! I haven’t even been able to report anything since this started! I’m stuck, same as you, I swear!” Eideann narrowed her eyes, considering him.

“Who are they? Who hired you?” she asked him quietly. He seemed to shrink a little under her gaze.

“A tall fellow, I forget his name. He, uhh…said he was working for Howe. Arl Rendon Howe.” When Eideann made no reply, the elf panicked. “He’s an important man, Teyrn Loghain’s right hand! So I didn’t do anything wrong!” He reached inside his breastplate, pulling forth a battered roll of paper. “Here…this is a letter from them,” he said, putting it on the table before her. “It has instructions and everything…keep it! Do whatever you want with it!” He hung his head, as if she were going to kill him. “I just thought I was serving the king and making a bit of coin on the side. You have to believe me.” Which king did he think he was serving? King Cailin? Or the new King Loghain? Eideann snatched up the paper and unfurled it long enough to verify his story. And then she crushed it in her hand as she slammed her fist down on the table. Berwick jumped, and she heard Zevran drawing his knives behind her in response. 

“ _Bella_ , if you want me to kill this man…?” he said, leaving it open ended. Eideann was quiet a moment, then shook her head.

“No. He’ll be defending Redcliffe tonight,” she said, pushing herself up instead. He stared at her, eyes wide.

“Wh…what?!” 

“You can die here, or you can earn your freedom,” she told him coolly. His brow creased, and then he swallowed, giving a slow nod.

“Alright…I’ll do it. Thank you for your mercy. I won’t forget it!” 

“Leliana, see that he ends up by the first line,” Eideann said, and turned away. 

“ I will,” Leliana said, her voice cold, and Berwick gave a sharp cry as the bard dragged him out. Alistair looked to Eideann who just shook her head.

She had suspected as much, since he had been so confident in openly attacking Highever, since Teagan had told her the story they were putting about. But at the same time, learning Arl Howe really was so intimately entwined in the plot made her feel sick, and a wave of anger washed over her, first cold and then hot, burning like fire.

Eamon had proven himself dangerous to Loghain long before the Blight had begun, marrying an Orlesian, trying to convince Cailin to put Anora aside, raising Cailin’s half-brother and only current heir. He had been silenced, as she suspected, somehow, and probably by poison. 

Loghain had betrayed them all at Ostagar, but she had not believed a man so driven by hatred of Orlais would really favor Howe so much. While Howe was indeed capable of wriggling through the grass like a snake with the subtlety Loghain could barely fathom, his family had been allied to Orlais during the war almost until the very end at River Dane. The alliance itself made no sense, unless one understood that of all the enemies Loghain would make in aligning himself against Cailin, the only one aside from the King himself with the ability to stand against him was the Teyrn of Highever. The Howes were the vassals of Highever, but her grandfather had killed the Arl’s father at Harper’s Ford in reclaiming the lands, and for all his pretending there was no love lost between them. Politics and a time of peace had forced Arl Howe to try and heal the rifts by marriage, to cement his power back in place with an alliance of blood. But that plan had failed long ago when Fergus married Oriana, and Eideann herself had always brushed aside his attempts to win her hand for one of his sons.

Arl Howe was ambitious. He always had been. He was not joining Loghain because he believed in the cause. He picked his side based on what was the most profitable for him. He always had, even after his father’s death when he joined Bryce Cousland and Leonas Bryland to ride against Orlais. Being in Loghain’s pockets from the start would mean staggering rewards should the payoff be realized. He must feel very safe now. 

He had eliminated the Couslands, or so he believed, and claimed her Terynir for his own. He had sent someone to incapacitate the Arl. These were not the moves of a warlord or general. Loghain did not have the tact to strike into the heart of political points of power. But Arl Rendon Howe did.

“Zevran, who hired you?” Eideann asked, looking to the elf.

“The Teyrn. Loghain,” he told her, looking confused.

“No. It wasn’t him directly, was it?” Zevran nodded slowly.

“You are right, _Bella_ it was a slimy man with a hooked nose and a voice that whined. I try to forget him.” 

Arl Howe had hired Zevran to kill them too. Meaning Arl Howe had contacts amidst the Antivan Crows. And if anyone could make the Arl of Denerim disappear without a trace…

“You were on a job here, prior to the one to kill Alistair and me,” she said after a moment. “You were here to kill Arl Urien Kendalls of Denerim, weren’t you.” Zevran’s eyes flickered a moment, and then he crossed his arms.

“What are you getting at, Bella?” 

“Is it true or not?” He watched her, then finally sighed.

“Yes.” She turned away.

“Arl Urien died on the way to Ostagar. My family was slaughtered in their beds. Arl Eamon falls ill and somehow Redcliffe goes mad. The Circle Tower is overthrown by blood mages allied with Loghain. Loghain may be tactical, but he is not subtle. He needed a snake in the grass at his side to make sense of all that. Who better than Rendon Howe?” she muttered.

“You’re saying the Arl of Amaranthine is trying to kill Eamon?” Alistair asked.

“Or he put the idea in Loghain’s head to do it,” Eideann confirmed, then shook her head. “Between the two of them, they could very well destroy Ferelden.” She laced her fingers together a moment and leaned into her hands. “Maker’s blood, they’re entrenched.” 

“What about the Queen?” Alistair asked. She glanced to him, feeling a twinge of something. 

“Yes,” she said musingly. “What _about_ the Queen?” And then they were interrupted by the sound of a dirty chuckle near the fireplace, and Oghren’s best attempt at wooing a girl.

“Warden!” he roared with a grin, waving to her. “Come back me up here!” Eideann stared, and he kept waving at her. “Get over here, you rock-licking nug-humper! You owe me!” Eideann gave Alistair a pained look, and then shook her head before going to join the dwarf.

“What are you doing?” 

“Warden, this is Felsi,” he said and Eideann smiled slightly at the dwarf woman, clearly a serving maid Oghren had accosted mid-delivery. Felsi gave her a slight smile back, then glanced to Oghren. Eideann glanced at Oghren with a raised eyebrow.

“Oghren, she’s not a genlock. You don’t need my help to interfere with people doing their work.” He just grinned.

“You haven’t met her, I take it?” Eideann gave him a flat look, then glanced to Felsi.

“Look, if he’s bothering you, and you want him to leave you alone, say the word, and I shall drag him away and drown him in a barrel of ale,” she told the dwarf woman, who gave another slight smile then sighed with reservation. Oghren nudged Eideann’s side.

“That’s me, Mister Charm. Find out how much she misses old Oghren, or who I have to kill, and I’ll sweep her off her feet.” Eideann gave him a distasteful look, and Felsi shook her head. Whoever’s drinks she was carrying had come over to collect them themselves, and that left her bare-handed and completely without a reason to escape quickly. So she made one up instead. She looked to Eideann with a put-upon gaze, strands of her ginger hair falling across her eyes. 

“What can I get for you?” she asked in a voice that was world-weary and tired. “And don’t say mead. We ran out of that a week ago. And don’t say rum, either. Ran out the day before yesterday. And don’t say brandy.” Eideann sighed, looking about, then gave Felsi an apologetic look.

“When did you run out of brandy?” she asked, and Felsi just shook her head.

“Oh, we haven’t yet. It’s just terrible. We got it from a shady Orlesian trader, and I think it might really be turpentine,” she said frankly, pulling a cloth from where it was tucked into her belt and looking about.

“Felsi, I need tables cleaned, girl!” Lloyd, the fat innkeeper called. Eideann narrowed her eyes, and Felsi sighed, calling back to him.

“I’ve got a customer!” Then she glanced to Eideann. “Look, you might be a Warden, but…you don’t smell like a drunk. What are you doing with him?” She glanced briefly to Oghren. “Get kicked in the head by a bronto?” Eideann grinned, shaking her head.

“Something like that,” she said. “I hear you two were close once though.” Oghren grinned, giving his dirty chuckle again, and leaned back against the wall to wriggle his thick eyebrows in Felsi’s direction. Felsi grimaced. 

“I’d rather kiss a deepstalker on the lips that see him again,” she said, glancing to him with distaste and then back at Eideann. She shook her head.

“What happened between you two?” Eideann asked, looking between them.

“What happened?” Felsi said incredulously. “Is that a serious question? Have you _met_ Oghren?” She crossed her arm and stared at him, angry. “He got drunk. Drunker than usual, even. Took off his pants and challenged a roast nug to a wrestling match at my father’s funeral. He lost, by the way. The roast got him in an arm lock. He sat there crying for half an hour before someone pulled it off him.” Eideann couldn’t help it, she smiled, and Felsi shook her head, eyeing him up with pity.

“Look,” Eideann said simply, “Oghren, maybe we should leave Felsi alone?” She pulled on his arm, but he pushed her away. 

“Felsi!” Lloyd called, and the dwarf looked to him, then sighed. 

“Look, I should really get back to work,” she said, and Oghren pushed himself off the wall.

“Wait,” he said and she fixed him with a flat stare.

“What are you even doing here?” she said simply. He shifted.

“Just trying to kick back with a pint. Fighting darkspawn’s a lot of sodding work you know?” Eideann gave a disgusted sigh. She could hear Zevran laughing at her in the background. So she threw herself into it, to prove Zevran wrong.

“Actually, that part is true,” Eideann told Felsi. “He took on an army of golems almost singlehanded after we cut our way through Bownammar’s darkspawn breeding grounds.” Her voice was a bit flat, but that was true. Felsi raised an eyebrow, then crossed her arms again.

“It was a bit of a pain, but…it was a personal favor for the king of Orzammar, you understand,” Oghren boasted. Felsi sighed.

“The whole surface to choose from, and you just _happened_ to come to my tavern?” she said.

“Fate I suppose,” Eideann said. “We came to see the Arl, but with things as they are, we’ll be defending the village tonight.” Felsi gave her a look, but it was softer now, and then she uncrossed her arms and shook her head again.

“Fate? The ancestors must have a sense of humor, then,” she said. 

“Sure they do!” Oghren agreed, giving her a big smirk. “You’ve had a good look at Lady Helmi, haven’t you? If her face isn’t a joke the ancestors are playing, I’m a bronto’s behind.” Lady Helmi was probably the most beautiful woman in Orzammar by that proclamation. Felsi agreed almost immediately.

“So…Lady Helmi must be a Paragon of beauty then,” she muttered, and Eideann liked her a lot just then. What patience to have stood there so long, even if it was to shoot down Oghren each and ever time with a sharp-tongued comment. Eideann pulled on Oghren’s shoulder.

“Alright, enough,” she told him. “Time to go.” He gave her a glare, but then sighed and nodded, glancing sidelong to Felsi.

“You don’t miss me even a little, Felsi?” he asked.

“How can I miss you until you leave?” she shot back. He grinned.

“You keep saying that. I know you still want me though.” 

“It’s like you can read my mind. Someone call the Chantry. This must be blood magic at work,” Felsi said with a pointed look. Oghren stepped forward, and Eideann shook her head.

“Oghren,” Eideann said more sharply, and he took a step back away from Felsi.

“Yeah, yeah.” Then he sighed dramatically. “Oh well, it’s been fun, Felsi, but I better go.” She nodded. 

“Don’t let the door hit you in the arse on the way out,” she called as he turned away. “Actually, who am I kidding? Go ahead and let it. Indulge yourself.” He just grinned so she couldn’t see and Eideann shook her head.

“Come, my stout friend,” Zevran said, clapping Oghren on the shoulders and relieving Eideann of the burden of him any longer. Alistair was just smirking and trying not to laugh.

“That poor woman,” he said as she rejoined him. Eideann nodded, closing her eyes.

“Maker, even if we make it through the night, I don’t want to have to deal with this in the morning.” Alistair just rocked a little in his chair and grinned.

“You’re the one who brought him along,” he told her wryly. “You’re the one that insisted we keep him. Now you are responsible for taking care of him.”

“Maker’s breath, he makes Angus look pristine.” She beckoned to him and looked to the door. “Come on, I need to check in with Teagan before we rest up for the night. I want to make sure everything is ready just in case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my readers! If you like what you're reading, leave me a comment or send me kudos so I know to keep writing more for you all! :)
> 
> Also, for those who are interested, I finally got around to getting a picture.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=zlzoe0)  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann finally puts a name to their true foe; night falls on Redcliffe; Eideann, Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana infiltrate the castle at Bann Teagan's request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence (and some gore)
> 
> Comments always welcome! :)

Eideann carefully removed her things from her pack, piece by piece, in the privacy of the Revered Mother’s chambers. She had managed an hour or so of sleep, but then had stirred while the others rested, and closeted herself away from them all to think. Her hands went through the vials of healing potions, the small pouch of ashes she had placed there for safe-keeping, and the rest of her personal effects. Her fingers at the bottom of the bag found what remained of Alistair’s rose, and she pulled forth the petals carefully. They were blackened around the edges, curling and brittle, and in her bag they had taken some damage. She had not expected it to live forever. But she carefully gathered up the rest and then sat there on the floor with her bag, gazing at the petals in her hands. It had lasted longer than it had in Lothering, at least. 

But now it was faded, wilting away, its beauty fleeting and gone. It had been Leliana’s sign the Maker was watching, but now it lay dead in her hands, as absent from them as the Maker himself was said to be. Alistair had told her when he first gave it to her that he had thought of her when he saw it, beautiful even with its thorns, and resilient. What would he say now, she thought, and sighed, closing her eyes.

She felt as tired as the petals dying in her hands. She was world-weary and bruised from the buffeting winds of fate and circumstance. She looked about the chamber until she found a small box holding hankerchiefs, and she took one, placing the last of the petals within carefully and then tying it together about them. It may be dying, a mere shadow of what it once had been, but it still held his heart, and hers, and she was not willing to part with it yet. If she died battling the Blight, she wanted to die knowing she still had those petals. 

She found the final thing in her bag and carefully drew it forth. It was as brittle as the petals, pages yellowed and spine creaking as she carefully opened its frayed binding. She had found it, waterlogged and forgotten, in the library at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and had made sure no one else could see it. But now, here, in private, she at last had a chance to read its pages.

Beneath the gentle glow of the stained glass windows, she let the browned ink in a spidery script catch the light. 

_The Old Gods Rise Again_ the book was titled, and beneath it was the inscription of Sister Mary, 8:50 Blessed. The book was apocryphal, she was almost entirely positive, and probably had no place in any Chantry, including the one she currently was living in, but she had been certain to take it. It had given her answers. Or she felt that answers were inside, even if she had not had the time to find them yet. 

She gently turned the poorly-treated pages until she came to the first chapter and then crossed her legs, book in her lap held with both hands, to consider it. Angus, out with Alistair, would probably have tried to sit on it at that point, so she counted herself lucky again for the privacy and peered at the handwritten pages.

“Dumat, Dragon of Silence,” she read softly, keeping her voice a mere whisper, but she wanted to hear it aloud, to force her thoughts into being. He was the first and the most powerful, the Archdemon of the First Blight slain at the Battle of the Silent Plains by the first Grey Wardens. 

“Zazikel, Dragon of Chaos.” The second Blight, killed at the Battle of Starkhaven.

“Toth, Dragon of Fire.” The third Archdemon, herald of the bloodiest Blight in history, killed at the Battle of Hunter Fell. 

“Andoral, Dragon of Slaves.” And the fourth, killed by Garahel at the Battle of Ayesleigh. All of them had risen north of the Waking Sea. Ferelden had never seen a Blight. The Grey Wardens were said to know where the Old Gods were imprisoned, as Morrigan had told her from her research in Orzammar, and yet the presence of Grey Wardens was so small in Ferelden, even before the exile.

Her Cousland Blue eyes slipped to the last three names.

“Urthemiel, Dragon of Beauty; Razikale, Dragon of Mystery; Lusacan, Dragon of Night.” Any of them could be the dragon that haunted her dreams, the one they had seen in Bownammar on the bridge that had made her want to give in and die. Any one of them could be the beast that felt like the Void itself in her mind. 

“Which?” she said aloud. And her eyes fell on the handkerchief that held the petals. 

Beauty twisted and corrupted by the Blight, darkness swallowing all that was good. 

She brushed her fingers lightly over the name and let it settle, like the strange whispers in the back of her mind, and decided to believe it. She needed a name, even if it was the wrong one. She needed to make it one being, instead of just a monster, or she would never find the strength to fight it back.

_Urthemiel._

If the tales were true, if Archdemons were corrupted Old Gods, then such a power should touch the land, Thedas should feel the ripples of their ancient strength, even if in minor ways. Dumat’s ascension had led to the fall of the Imperium as the Old Gods fell silent and the Maker turned his gaze from the worlds. Silence. Zazikel’s chaos had been the first time since the original Blight that Thedas had been forced to contend with such evil again. It had reshaped the world, uniting the Alamarri, ushering in the Orlesian Empire, and blossoming into new nations when it was done. Under Toth, the bloodiest Blight in history splattered across the lands of Thedas, and by the time it was done the darkspawn corpses were piled a hundred feet high and burned, beacons of triumph born of Toth’s fire. Garahel had led an army of the oppressed, including the Broken Circle apostates, casteless and surfacer dwarves known as the Stone’s Bastards, and former slaves of Tevinter calling themselves Masterless in the defeat of Andoral, Dragon of Slaves. 

She thought of Uldred, so proud of his abominations, of Branka desperate to regain the lost glory of the dwarven empire, of the Lady of the Forest – the beauty and savagery of the forest in one – fighting to return the beasts to their previous forms and end the curse. She thought of Flemeth, whom the tales said was once a great beauty, so fair that Osen the Bard and Lord Conobar of Highever bartered over her beauty. Even if the story was not true, _that_ part Eideann believed. Flemeth had been beautiful once. 

Beauty, glory, pride.

 _Urthemiel, Dragon of Beauty._

She closed the book quietly and sat there a moment, pondering it. 

_Let it end with the beauty of peace, then,_ she thought, and pushed herself up, packing away her things and then strapping on her swords. 

When she emerged, Alistair was sitting with Angus, feeding her dog salted meat picked from his own plate until she cleared her throat and he gave her a guilty look. He looked about, then pushed himself up and set aside his plate. 

“Ser Perth wanted to see you, but I told him to let you be awhile,” he told her, and she smiled slightly, nodding.

“Thank you.” 

“Are you alright?” he asked, considering her, and she drew a deep breath.

“It’s going to be a long night,” she finally said, and he nodded. She looked about, seeing her party in various places about the Chantry foyer, and she let them be. They knew the plan. They would be where she needed them.

She went instead to the door and let herself out. The sun was hanging low in the sky now, casting a strange glow across the waters of Lake Calenhad below. The fires were ready to be lit, the barricades built. Eideann climbed the path towards the Windmill and there found Ser Perth.

He was tall, thin, with auburn hair and soft eyes that made her think a little of Rory Gilmore. But Ser Perth was also sporting a bandage on his arm, and his armor had seen better days. 

“Greetings, Grey Wardens,” he said as Eideann and Alistair came to stand with him. “I am as grateful as Bann Teagan that you are here.” Alistair said hello in a somber tone, and Ser Perth gave him a slight bow, then he looked to Eideann and hesitated a little. “I…must admit, I don’t know quite how to address you,” he said after a moment of awkwardness.

“My Lady would be proper. I am a Teryn’s daughter,” she said in a neutral answer. Familiar titles seemed to settle him, so he bent to kiss her hand gently and nodded.

“Very well, then, my Lady, I am at your service,” he said quietly. “The defenses are prepared, and my knights are ready to hold this line.” For all his chivalric proclamation, there were only a handful of knights. Dwyn and his pair of henchmen, and Berwick the spy would be stationed up at the front line with them. Eideann planned to be there herself as well, along with Alistair, Shale, and Morrigan. She had left Wynne with the others in the Chantry in case they needed more healers, and the elderly woman was weary after working so hard that morning and afternoon. Leliana planned to man a position near the Gull and Lantern where she and her handful of archers could watch the Chantry and fire at the path as well if need be. Eideann had left Sten and Oghren at the doors, because if anything would stop undead from entering the Chantry, it was them. 

According to all reports, the green light that came from the castle always followed the path, and since Redcliffe was surrounded by cliffs, it made sense that would be the way they would come. There really were very few options. But Eideann had made sure the barricades at the Chantry held, because she was so full of pride that she believed her plans infallible. After all, there was always something she could have overlooked. 

The dusk fell heavily, and with it came a tense fervor. They waited, watching the castle drawbridge from the windmill’s overlook, as the stars began to twinkle in the dark sky above and the defenders lit the bonfires in the Chantry square. 

And then they saw it, the green glow. At first it was within the walls, distant and difficult to see. And then the portcullis drew back, and the green mist spilled forth, and Eideann drew her blades and turned to the path.

“Morrigan, light the flames,” she said, and the oil caught and erupted high into the sky. 

The first corpses that emerged were long dead, and clearly attackers from the castle because they wore the armor of Redcliffe’s guards. They shambled towards the group waiting, funneled in as Eideann had planned, and she heard Berwick draw his bow. Beside him, Zevran was similarly armed, and the elves held their strings taut until the creatures came within distance.

There was a heavy twang as the strings were released, and the arrows flew forth, through the flames, felling the first line.

But it was only the first, and soon there were more, and Berwick and Zevran alone could not hold them. 

Some burned in the fires, others stumbled through with creaking jaws on exposed tendons gaping wide with death. Their bones were bleached, and then blackened by flames, but they kept on. Eideann’s blades met the rotting flesh and cut through the first that emerged from the flames like a creature damned, and then she called for the others to charge.

And somehow the line held. Though the massive force had hit the bulk of their first line, they managed to hold them back. Wave after wave came, every guard in the castle surely, and a great number of villagers, and then finally there was a lull, and Eideann peered into the green mists with suspicion. That could not be the end, surely…

And then she heard it, Leliana’s voice. 

“Eideann! They’re in the water!” Eideann looked back to the tavern where Leliana and her archers stood firing down towards the Chantry, and the sound of battle rose from beyond. The water? How many of them were in the water?

She looked up the castle and could see some of the mist pouring down the cliffs into the lake. Any dead left in those waters would come too, meaning the force could just keep growing. She cursed, then called to Ser Perth.

“Hold the line!” she ordered, and he nodded, stepping forward. “Alistair, Shale, Zevran, with me.” 

They slid down the clay of the hill, barely keeping their feet, Shale almost a rockslide of her own, and barreled into the square in time to slam into the undead line as it breached their first defenses. Oghren and Sten were there already, blades swinging as they forced the creatures back, and Eideann vaulted the first barricade, using the momentum of their mad dash to clear it and enter the defending circle. Stone came hurtling through, crashing into the undead, and Eideann saw Leliana’s people fire their arrows down into the oncoming force. 

There were a few Redcliffe villagers that stood at the gates, but they were afraid, and one had cast aside his weapons and was praying.

“Get up and fight!” Eideann roared. “Or you are all going to die!” He started, looking at her with wide eyes in panic, and she hauled him up to his feet, turning him to face the undead. “Stand and fight, damn you!” He nodded, bending to gather his sword in his hands, and she turned away, hacking through an undead soldier and kicking its head away. If they did come back, at least it wouldn’t be able to do so in once piece. 

In the Deep Roads they had fought all night through Bownammar, unknowing. But here the stars above, and the crash of the waters of Lake Calenhad against the wooden docks and stone wharf served as a reminder of how tired they were. And every wave was met with a fresh one. Ser Perth and his men were besieged at the Windmill, and the Chantry itself was set upon by the mob of murdered villagers, but each time they beat the wave back. Each time they cleared the space to stand again. 

And then, at last, the greying light of dawn and the Morning Star emerging over the horizon and drawing for the sun. 

And the creatures retreated into the mists, and then the mists were dissipated in the rays of sunlight that shot over the lake, and the town at last fell silent. 

The Chantry door creaked, and Wynne peered out, eyes tired and covered in black circles. Eideann looked back, and let out a sigh of relief, wiping the blood that splattered her brow with the heel of her hand. 

Ser Perth and his men were coming down the hill, exhausted, and Eideann quickly counted their number. Not a single one lost, not even Berwick or Dwyn and his men. And Leliana, setting her bow aside, had taken a seat on the tavern’s porch, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

“All clear,” she called, and Eideann nodded, then looked back as the door to the Chantry opened wider and Bann Teagan emerged, weary but full of hope. He met her gaze, then gave a nod of gratitude. 

The other villagers were gathered about them now, some emerging form the Chantry to stand on the stone porch and see the damage done. The ground was littered with the corpses of the undead, which no one had the energy to deal with yet, and Murdock was standing over them, shaking his head. Teagan wet his lips, then motioned to Eideann, who climbed the steps wearily to join him. 

“Dawn arrives,” he announced with the usual sort of fanfare required of such moment, “and all of us remain. We are victorious!” There were some cheers, even among such an exhausted crowd, and clapping. Eideann just hung her head a little, desperate to sit down. Soon. Soon. “It is these good folk you see beside me,” Teagan continued, waving to Eideann and her companions, smile breaking through, “that we have to thank for our lives today. Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished.” He turned to her then, taking her hand in a courtly manner. “I bow to you, dear Lady,” he said, doing so. “The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.” 

“Teagan,” she said softly, a little embarrassed, and he rose again, looking across the others.

The Revered Mother took a step forward, clasping her hands together.

“Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe,” she declared solemnly, proceeding to do so. There was a hush that fell over the crowd before the gates as most of Redcliffe proceeded to follow suit. Eideann bowed her head, but she said no words. She had just killed them all again, those who had fallen the nights before, and no Maker had deigned to save them, so what use had she for prayers. Out of respect she closed her eyes, and let them have that small moment, and said nothing. 

Teagan raised his head first, and clenched his fists.

“With the Maker’s favor, the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out your Arl,” he told the villagers, and Eideann looked to him. “Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able.” The villagers shifted nervously, so Eideann stepped up beside Teagan, eyes sharp.

“Some of my people will remain behind in the village to help you,” she said, her voice strained from exhaustion. “They will be able to assist if it becomes necessary, but we shall return before the night falls again.” That seemed to help, and she stepped back. “Teagan,” she said in a quieter voice, “I cannot go immediately. If I do, I will fall down dead in the courtyard.” He nodded, and the crowd began to disperse as he led them back inside. 

Eideann managed an extra hour of sleep, curled about Angus with Alistair at her back. And when she woke, she felt fresher, though still tired. She was not at her best, but it was enough. She retrieved the pouch of Ashes, and hurriedly ate some of the leftover cheese and a few slices that Wynne had pared from an apple for her, then looked for Arl Teagan. The Sisters of the Chantry told her he had gone to the overlook by the Windmill to wait for her, so she gathered her blades, pocketed some of her healing poultices, and beckoned for Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to follow her. She gave quick instructions for Sten to watch over the villagers in the Chantry and to see about making repairs to the defenses in case they were needed again, and she sent Zevran off to keep tabs on the spy Berwick, and then she crossed the carpeted hall to the doors and stepped out into the square.

There was a cool breeze from over Lake Calenhad, but it kept her awake, so she focused on it rustling her hair and made her way to the Windmill where Teagan was watching the castle with a solemn gaze. 

“Odd how quiet the castle looks from here,” he said as she approached. Eideann glanced to it, then grimaced. “You would think there was nobody inside at all.” There were no signs of life, not even guards atop the parapets walking the walls. But it held enough to fuel and army of undead, and Eideann was not about to waste time now. She needed to make good on her word and get moving. “I had a plan,” Teagan told her, “to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family.” Eideann sighed, glancing to the windmill, its blades turning slowly in the breeze on a creaky old mechanism. 

“That’s convenient,” she finally said, fixing him with a look. He sighed.

“I’m sorry if I – ” He stopped mid-sentence, staring over her shoulder, and she glanced back at his wide-eyed stare. “Maker’s breath!” 

A single guard and a woman in fine silks were hurrying down the hill towards them. The woman had her hair back in an ornate knot at the back of her head, and as she approached she called out to them. 

“Teagan!” The Orlesian accent was unmistakable. Eideann stared as the Arlessa joined them, panting. “Thank the Maker you live!” the woman said, gasping Teagan’s hands and peering up into his face. 

“Isolde?” Teagan asked, staring. “You’re alive? How did you…What has happened?”

“I don’t have much time to explain,” she insisted breathlessly. Her face was pale. “I slipped away when I saw the battle was over and I must return quickly. And I need you to return with me, Teagan.” She gripped her skirts, pulling them aside, and turned, pulling on his hand. He took only a step forward and the Arlessa looked at Eideann and her associates with eyes lit with fear. “Alone!” 

Eideann stared, unable to even move, nevermind speak for a moment. The path about them and all the rest of the village was strewn with Redcliffe dead. Her people were huddled before the Chantry, mourning and unable to cope with the loss of all leadership. And she had been alive in the castle for all this time? Now she wanted to go back. 

This was the Arlessa that the villagers suspected of illicit affairs with a tutor or using blood magic , or Maker knew what else. And it was no surprise. She did not care a lick what had happened to those people down there. Something else drove her, some other purpose, and she was determined to get Teagan wrapped up in it too. 

“You don’t seem very concerned by what’s happened here,” Eideann said shortly, coldly, crossing her arms. The Arlessa whirled on her like she had been invisible before, eyes giving her a once-over before her brow lowered and she made a look of distaste.

“Who is this _woman_ , Teagan?!” She demanded. 

“I am _Teyrna_ Eideann Cousland of Highever, _Arlessa_ Isolde,” Eideann replied, forcing away the anger that had rippled through her. She heard Alistair sigh behind her and step forward.

“You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?” he asked, and if he thought that was likely to help, he was wrong. Isolde turned her eyes on him like he was filth she had stepped in, and Eideann raised her chin to glare back. 

“Alistair? Of all the…why are _you_ here?” 

_Because he’s from here?_ Eideann wanted to say back, but bit her tongue. Alistair drew a breath, gritting his teeth. 

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan said sharply, forcing her to look back at him. “I owe them my life.” As if his was the only one that mattered. To Isolde, that was probably true.

“Pardon me,” Isolde said, ignoring Alistair and instead looking to Eideann. There was no sincerity in her apology. “I would exchange pleasantries, but considering the circumstances…” Alistair would not be ignored. He shook his head.

“Please, Lady Isolde, we had no idea anyone was even _alive_ within the castle. We must have some answers!” he said firmly, and Eideann stared down the Arlessa with a barely concealed disdain.

“I know you want more explanation,” the Arlessa said, turning away from them and pointedly ignoring them in favor of talking only to Teagan, “but I do not know what it is safe to tell. The dead hunt the living, and I fear Connor is going mad. He will not flee the castle! You must help him, Teagan!” Eideann stared, incredulous, and shook her head, stepping into the conversation again.

“He is a _child_ ,” she said fiercely. “Grab his wrist and drag him out! You are his _mother_!” Isolde glared at her, and Eideann glared right back. “Most of Redcliffe is dead now because of this, and your only concern is that your son won’t do as he’s told?” Isolde tore her gaze away and stepped towards Teagan, fprcing her way past Eideann and knocking her shoulder as she did so. 

“You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!” the Orlesian said desperately. Except drag him out screaming if that’s what it took, which would be better for everyone including Connor! Eideann planted her hands on her hips. 

“And what of Arl Eamon?” she asked simply. “Is he still alive?”

“He is,” Isolde said, anger in her eyes. “He is being kept alive so far.” Teagan heard it as well, and narrowed his eyes.

“ _Kept_ alive?”

“Something the mage summoned!” Isolde said. What mage? The boy’s tutor? “So far it’s kept myself, Connor, and Eamon alive. The others were not so lucky.” Eideann had to turn her back, turn away, before she slapped the woman. She had sacrificed all of Redcliffe for one boy? “It allowed me to come for you, Teagan,” Isolde continued behind her, “because I begged, because I said Connor needed help.” Eideann shook her head, glancing to Alistair and Wynne. If it _was_ something this mage had summoned, it was a demon, and demons did not listen to begging and pleading. 

“Who is this mage?” Eideann said, cutting her off.

“He is an…infiltrator, I think. One of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill,” Isolde finally replied, but she was probably just speaking at Teagan again.

“So why must Teagan go alone?” Eideann pushed, turning back. 

“For Connor’s sake!” the Arlessa scoffed as if Eideann were made of dirt too. Eideann glared back.

“And why do I get the feeling you’re not telling us everything?” she said flatly. The Arlessa stepped back, affronted, but Eideann did not move.

“I beg your pardon!” Isolde spat. “That’s a rather impertinent accusation!” Eideann stared her down with her Cousland eyes. 

“Not,” she said simply, “if it is true.” Isolde broke eye contact first, and Eideann felt the acknowledgement she was right. The woman went back to her begging, pulling on Teagan’s arm again, and appeared to be wearing him down with pathetic tears, because at last Teagan grimaced.

“The King is dead, and we need my brother no more than ever,” he finally said, resigned. “I will return with you to the castle, Isolde.”

“Oh thank the Maker!” Isolde cried. “Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!” Eideann shook her head, certain there was blasphemy in there somewhere, and thought less of her for such zealotry and blessings in the face of so much death. Instead, she turned to Teagan who met her eyes. 

“I know that look, Eideann Cousland. Your brother used to give it to me when he thought I was being a fool as well.” 

“You are,” Eideann confirmed. “This is a mistake. You’re going to get yourself killed.” He sighed.

“I must try,” he finally told her, and his eyes were desperate too. It softened her a little and her lips parted slightly. “I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone,” he told her. “You on the other hand have proven quite formidable.” Then he exchanged a few words with Isolde, who agreed to meet him by the gate, and he turned to Eideann, Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana. “Here’s what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door.” He caught her hand and folded the thick ring, silver lined with serpentstone, into her hands, closing her fingers about it. Eideann stared at him, then shook her head slowly, unable to believe this was really his plan. He gave her a nervous smile. “Perhaps I will…distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?” 

“I say Fergus would have had your head for such a plan,” Eideann said sharply, and he sighed.

“Yes, but you are not Fergus, and he cannot help us here.” He released her hand and turned away, but Eideann reached to catch his pauldron and turn him back.

“Teagan, there are very few people who I can trust now. Do not get yourself killed,” she said. He met her eyes, then reached to run a hand into her hair. It was not as Alistair did, loving, just brotherly. He scruffed it a little with a small smile.

“Ah, Little Sister,” he said in the same tone of voice Fergus had always used. “The woman before me is a far cry different from the girl I had to coax from a tree during Fergus’s wedding.” He pulled his hand back and then carefully embraced her. “You’re the strong one now. I am putting my faith in you, Eideann. Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, anyone else…we’re expendable.” And then he pulled away and clasped Alistair’s wrist a moment, sharing with him a respectful nod, before marching up the hill. Eideann looked to the signet ring in her hand, then drew a breath and glanced to the windmill. 

There really was nothing for it then.

“Ser Perth,” she called, and he looked to her with a serious expression. “When we reach the courtyard we will raise the portcullis. We may need your assistance by then.” He nodded and gave her a bow. 

Eideann sighed and reached for the windmill door. 

“Did he really coax you out of a tree?” Alistair asked, standing over her as she kicked aside the straw that lined the floor and bent to unlock the door hidden underneath with the ring Teagan had left her. 

“Yes. My brother was getting married. I was…distraught,” she said simply. He looked to her disbelieving.

“Over your brother’s marriage?”

“He was my closest friend.” Was…when did it become was? When had she accepted he was gone? She sighed. “I thought I was losing him to some Antivan woman who was pretty and ladylike. I hid in the orchard, tore my new green sea-silk gown climbing up a tree. Teagan was the one who came to find me. I think Fergus sent him when he realized I was gone. He…he leaned against the tree and told me about when Eamon was married. It took him almost an hour, but eventually I came down, and he told me I would be the prettiest dryad at the wedding, what with all the leaves in my hair. It was longer back then.” She shook her head. “He and Fergus were…very close.” Alistair gave a nod, then drew a breath as the door came open and a deep well-like cavern opened up.

“Always underground,” he muttered with distaste, and Eideann nodded, but she climbed in, getting a grip on the ladder, and crawled down.

The tunnel led to a damp stone passage, which Wynne lit with a small wisp to illuminate dripping stones and puddles. Eideann looked about, then shook her head. Clearly this was meant for emergencies only, and it obviously ran straight under the lake.

“Let’s hope it isn’t flooded anywhere,” she said, and then set off along the path.

It was not far, only about ten minutes, or maybe fifteen, before they found themselves climbing instead of descending, and then the stonework began to change. It grew drier, more recently cared for, better mortared. And at the end of the passage, there was a panel fitted into the wall. Eideann considered it a moment, and then Leliana stepped forward and pressed a button, opening the panel and revealing the doorway, which turned out to be on the inside of a cupboard. They stepped through, and found themselves, oddly, within the dungeons. 

Cells lined the walls, dirty straw scattered across the flagstones in the bottom of each, and Alistair gave them a wary look.

“I locked myself in one once when I was a child,” he said. “Good times.” But she could tell that he was just trying to distract himself.

The cells were not all empty, however, as they found out. In response to Alistair’s voice, something shuffled in the cell nearest the door, and a thin voice called out: “Hello?”

Eideann drew her sword slowly, quietly, and then warily moved around until she caught sight of a man, black hair lank over his forehead, robes stained with blood. They were blue, the color of apprentices in the Circle. She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t look like the Arlessa’s guards,” the man said, considering them. “Are you from outside the castle?” Eideann had no intention of answering his questions. Instead she raised the tip of her sword to the bars of the cell, aiming at his heart.

“Are you the mage Lady Isolde mentioned?” she asked.

“You’ve spoken to her?” He looked at them all, then his face fell a little. “Then you know what I did.”

“Yes, I do,” Eideann replied frankly. He shook his head.

“I’m not proud of my deed. Poisoning Arl Eamon was what I was hired to do.” Eideann blinked, then tilted her head a little to consider him. “Lady Isolde had no idea when she took me in to tutor her son, of course.” Eideann thought of Alduous, long dead, and shook her head.

“And what about all the walking corpses?” she demanded, arching her brow.

“I know it looks suspicious, but I’m not responsible! I was already imprisoned when all that began!” He looked pained, desperate to prove he was not the one at fault. “At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men, demanding that I reverse what I’d done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the Arl. That’s the first I heard about the walking corpses. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She…had me tortured, but there was nothing I could do or say that would appease her! So they…left me to rot.” Eideann heard the notes of truth in his tale and sighed, lowering the sword. 

“Why did you poison Arl Eamon?” she asked, suspecting the answer already. The mage, for he could be nothing else, stepped forward, wrapping his hands about the cell bars.

“I was instructed to by Teryn Loghain.” Eideann blinked. She had been expecting Howe. But Loghain himself had ordered this one, apparently in person. “I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. You see, I’m a maleficar, a blood mage.” Eideann was suddenly very glad they had gone to the Circle first. And then she considered the man with her Cousland blue gaze before shaking her head. He sighed, stepping back. “I…dabbled in the forbidden arts, and they condemned me to death for it. I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to…redeem myself. But he’s abandoned me here, hasn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart, and I’m responsible! I have to make it right somehow. I have to!” 

He had no further answers for them, so Eideann crossed her arms.

“Why so eager?” she asked him, and he looked at his feet.

“I made a stupid mistake at the Circle, and now I’ve made an even greater one. I’m not a bad person.” Eideann considered him. Let future generations weigh which mistake was worse. She had no idea what he had done at the Circle, but she had seen blood magic’s dark side first hand, and she did not know enough about this mage to justify anything other than leaving him right where he was where she could find him if she needed him.

There was another thing troubling her, however. There was no reason to hire a maleficar apostate as a tutor. The Circle was perfectly willing to send tutors to noble families on request from a selection of proven, sanctified mages, and he still wore the robes of an apprentice. How had he come to be teaching, then? Why had the Arlessa hired him rather than appeal to the Circle, unless there was something she needed to keep secret.

“Why did she hire _you_ to tutor her son?” Eideann asked him quietly, and the mage stared at her under thin brows before pushing his hair from his forehead.

“Connor had started to show signs,” he finally said. 

“Connor, a mage?” Alistair said in amazement. The blood mage sighed.

“She sought an apostate to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.” Eideann felt a ripple of fear go through her. She knew full well that if this mage was telling the truth, if he had not summoned the demon, another mage had. Something had torn the Veil. 

She stepped forward, gripping the bars.

“How much magic did you teach Connor?” The mage stared at her, retreating from the bars a little with fearful eyes.

“Some,” he said quickly. “But he’s still very young. I have thought about it,a nd its possible Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear the Veil.” Eideann leaned her head on the bars a moment like she were the one imprisoned, not him, and then shook her head.

“Arl Eamon had _no_ idea of his son’s abilities?” she clarified, and he eyed her warily.

“No. She was adamant he never find out. She said that he’d do the right thing, even if it meant losing their son. And that infuriated her.” Eideann closed her eyes, thinking of all the dead people with the faces fresh with rot from the lake and the nights of battle, the fallen dead of the village below and those barely even human anymore shambling in guards armor. She gritted her teeth, then forced the anger away, down, out.

The Arlessa had sacrificed all those lives for this. Connor had to have been the one to tear the Veil, or else it made no sense that the demon keep only his family alive. Connor’s magic lay at the center of the tattered Veil.

“I see,” Eideann said softly, and pushed her way back from the bars.

“I never meant for it to end like this,” the blood mage said in a pathetic murmur.

“Jowan’s intentions are good,” Wynne said, proving she had known him back in the Circle, or at least of him, “but I cannot trust him.” Eideann let that rest, since Wynne had a better say than she in this matter, and turned away.

“You’ll stay in your cell for now,” she told him, eyeing him up sidelong, and then she reached to draw her swords and progress further into the Redcliffe dungeons. 

They wove up through several flights of stairs, empty of all life, until they reached the docks located in a cave beneath the castle. There they found the first of the demon’s undead minions, safe in the shade of the cavern. 

How many servants and demons they cut through from that point on, Eideann would never know. She marked each on Isolde’s head. _She_ was the one at fault there. _She_ had done it, with all her selfish fears and childish actions. She was too afraid to let her boy go somewhere to learn, probably under Wynne or a similar mage with far more ability and skill than Jowan. Her fear had led to the destruction of almost all of Redcliffe. The population may never recover, those that had survived would bear the scars of those weeks for many years to come. And even then Isolde was trying to bend the world to her selfish whims to save her boy by putting Teagan in danger too. 

Eideann was ready to demand blood for what the Arlessa had done. 

They were waylaid by the Arl’s kennels, a small one by any measure, but full of dogs with rotting flesh that were possessed by spirits themselves and enraged as a result. One knocked Angus from her, and another tore at her with jagged teeth, but she managed to kick them away and stab her sword through the first one’s head. The rest went down by sheer luck alone. With all the mabari corpses felled, they finally reached the courtyard, and slipped out to peer into the sunlight warily.

There were some guards, but they were archers, clacking along the walls. Eideann ran for the portcullis mechanism and, with Wynne’s help, hauled it up high enough for Ser Perth and his men to join them in the courtyard. And then it was madness as the undead guardsmen fell upon them and bolts from crossbows bit the clay at their feet as they danced aside. 

The Urn of Sacred Ashes had been Isolde’s idea as well, and that meant Redcliffe had been undefended when the demon had been summoned. If Connor had torn the Veil, had become prey to a demon, then the Arlessa’s plan to keep him at home had even taken him from her in the end. The woman had not done it for him, though, and that was what was the most frustrating part. Arlessa Isolde had started all of this because she was afraid, because she did not want to lose him. It had nothing to do with what was best for her son. 

Eideann forced herself to remember this was the same woman that had driven Alistair from Redcliffe Castle at the age ten because she could not stand to hear he might be Eamon’s son. She had driven Alistair out because of her own pride. 

Because of all of that, Eideann’s mind was singularly focused on their task with only two exceptions. The first was when they passed the stables where Alistair had used to sleep, and she had to deal with the fleeting distraction of picturing a tawny-haired boy with eyes like gold running about with hay in his hair. It dawned on her with that image that Alistair probably knew a lot of the servants they were cutting down now. She glanced back at him, but was grim-faced and fierce, and he would not meet her eyes.

The second was when they finally found a survivor. It was a girl with soft brown hair in a purple maid’s gown. She was shaking like a leaf in an autumnal breeze. Her first reaction upon seeing them was to scream, and then she just burst into tears, sinking to her knees. Eideann knelt before her, until at last the girl could sob her name: Valena. The blacksmith’s daughter. Eideann had not really meant to keep her promise to find her, with all the situation being what it was, but she had done so anyway. She directed Valena to the now-empty courtyard, and the half-raised portcullis and told her to flee while she could. 

And then they stood before the great doors that led into the great hall. Eideann glanced to Alistair, who gave her a nod, and then, cautiously, she pushed the door open.

She was not sure what she had expected, but what they found was definitely not it. Teagan was doing somersaults on the carpet, playing a court fool, and on the dais Isolde stood, miserable and hugging her arms about herself. 

At her side is a boy that could only be Connor, watching Teagan with a cruel glint in his eye, and then when finally he looked up, his smile faded and there was something else there too. 

Connor had done far more than tear the Veil. He had made a deal with the demon itself. And now, it was too late.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann confronts the evil that is harrowing Redcliffe; faced with a difficult decision, Eideann is haunted by the past; Eideann gives Alistair his mother's amulet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Character death, violence.

“So, these are our visitors.” The voice that came from the boy was the strange dark echo the sloth demon’s voice had had. Connor’s eyes were thin slits full of cruelty, and he watched them with a smirk. “And these are the ones who defeated my soldiers, the ones I sent to reclaim my village.” Those eyes slid to her, meeting her Cousland blue eyes, and the smirk twisted into a sneer. “What is it? I can’t see clearly.” 

“This,” Isolde said in a measured voice that trembled with fear, “is a woman, as I am.” Eideann met the demon’s gaze. 

_No, I’m not,_ she thought coldly. And the demon agreed.

“She’s _nothing_ like you. Half your age, and prettier too? It’s a wonder you don’t have her executed in a fit of jealousy.” The boy turned away, and then for a moment brought his hands up to his head, shivering. Isolde made a move towards him.

“Connor? Connor can you hear me?” she asked with hope. The boy’s head snapped up and he pushed her away.

“Get _away_ from me, fool woman!”

“Maker’s breath,” Eideann heard someone say behind her. She thought it was Ser Perth, one of the surviving knights, but she could not be sure. She had not known them long enough to tell them apart by sound alone yet. “What’s going on here?!” Eideann tightened her grip on the blades in her hands, feeling her hands sweat. She did not stop watching the creature that was Connor. 

Isolde could see it, knew the intent in her eyes, and stepped forward. 

“Please,” she begged, “don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!” What he does is send the undead to massacre his own people. What he does is make deals with demons. He was responsible for that, he had made that choice. But so was she. Eideann thought of the little boy down in the village she and Alistair had pulled from the wardrobe of his dead parents’ house. There were hundreds of lives to think of, and each was more valuable than demon’s. 

“So _he_ is the evil force you spoke of.” She had no intention of kindness now. Even then, even in that moment, Isolde could not see the destruction wrought by the choices of herself and her son.

“No!” she sobbed. “Don’t say that!” She put her hands out, beseeching. “Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon – he started all this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!” None of that mattered, because all the good intentions in the world could not undo the misery caused by the repercussions of his actions. 

“It was a fair deal!” the demon snapped, glaring at them. That did not make it better. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!” Beside him, sitting on the ground, Teagan gave a wild laugh, and Eideann felt a chill go down her spine. That was _not_ going to happen. “Quiet, Uncle,” the possessed boy hissed, then the cruel eyes slid back to her. “But let’s keep things civil.” He spread his arms. “This woman will have the audience she seeks. Tell us, woman. What have you come here for?” 

Eideann thought of the villagers trapped in the Chantry assaulted by wave after wave of their own dead, felled by this demon’s hand. She thought of the servants they had cut their way through to reach the hall. And she set her jaw, eyes growing cold in the recollection.

“I came to stop you.” The demon grinned.

“Stop me? I’m not finishing playing! You can’t make me stop! No one can.” Its eyes slipped to Isolde. “I think it’s trying to spoil my fun, Mother.” 

“I…I don’t think…” Isolde stammered, even in that moment unable to stand up to the creature that had stolen her son. The demon waved her away dismissively.

“Of course you don’t!” it declared angrily. “Ever since you sent the knights away, you do nothing but deprive me of my fun! Frankly, it’s getting dull.” Isolde shrank again. “I crave excitement and action! This woman spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now she’ll repay me!” The demon glared back at Eideann, and then motioned for the guards that stood about them at the far end of the hall. Teagan rose, drawing his sword, and Eideann’s lips parted as she stared at them. The knights drew weapons as well, and Ser Perth had the wherewithal to step forward as they came towards them, eyes unseeing in death. 

Bann Teagan came right for her. 

Eideann felt the reverberation of steel on silverite rather than consciously moved to respond. She parried his blows, staggering back, staring, until he put his full weight into the next blow and she ducked under his arm to escape as Ser Perth’s shield came up to block the swing and cover her. 

“Maker’s blood, Teagan! Teagan!” she spat as he whirled about, but he could not hear her, or else the enchantment on him was so deep he could not fight it away. She stared and he raised his sword again.

“My Lady! Go!” Ser Perth cried, and for a moment she was back in Highever, and it was Rory’s voice calling for her to flee. And this time she did not. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and then stepped forward to meet his strike. She was better than him, faster and quicker and more practiced. Teagan’s skills lay in other areas, but that was not to say he had none at all. She had to parry a few of his blows, but finally twisted up and around, and her hilt came down hard against the back of his head, and he fell, crumpling, to the ground. 

The other knights had immediately moved to incapacitate the guardsmen. Isolde had fled into the corner, where she sat, tears on her face, head in her hands, trying to be as small as possible. Ser Perth looked up, eyes pained. These were men they knew, not just Bann Teagan. And then he looked to the other knights, those he had brought in with him who had not become walking corpses to man the walls of the demon’s keep. He gritted his teeth.

“Lady Cousland,” he said quietly, “something must be done.” Eideann nodded.

Isolde unfurled in the corner and slowly pushed herself up. Eideann ignored her, letting her do as she pleased, and looked about, but there was no sign of the demon that was Connor.

At her feet, Bann Teagan groaned, and she took a wary step backwards, until he carefully tried to push himself up, holding his head where she had downed him. He grimaced at her in pain, then shook his head.

“Eideann…” he murmured. “My apologies, my friend.” Isolde hurried forward, bending over him as Wynne wove a spell to see if she could help his head a little. 

“Teagan! Oh, Teagan! Are you alright?” the Orlesian said, wiping her face with her hands and touching his arm. Teagan pushed her away and then reached for Eideann’s hand to help him rise. Isolde looked up at them a moment, then rose herself, unable to meet their eyes.

“I am…better now, I think,” Teagan said after a moment, closing his eyes and wincing. “My mind is my own again.” Isolde shook her head, turning away, arms wrapped tightly about herself.

“Blessed Andraste! I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!” At last, something they agreed on. Eideann’s eyes slid to her sidelong. Isolde looked back, and her face crumpled a little again. “Please! Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!” Eideann stared, and for a moment she could not even form a reply. Connor was entirely responsible for it, because Isolde had not ensured his own safety by getting him real teachers. He had made a deal with demons while a poisoner sat in the cells in apprentice robes. And she had let it all happen, let everything turn out this way. Oh, Eideann had no doubt that Connor had learned the magic required from somewhere. In fact, she was entirely certain an admitted blood mage would almost certainly be capable of getting Connor into enough trouble to summon demons. After all, tearing the Veil was simple. It needed only blood, or death. The blame was shared, that was true, but they all had blood on their hands now.

“You knew about this all along,” Eideann said, holding both swords in one hand and using the other to push her hair back from her face.

“I…yes.” Well at least she was admitting it now. “I didn’t tell you because I believed we could help him. I still do.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed and she closed her eyes to stop herself from doing something drastic. “He is not always the demon you saw,” the Orlesian woman insisted. “Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!”

Eideann had to turn away, had to force the woman as far from her mind as she could just to regain control. Teagan recognized the anger within her. He was angry too. That may have been more frightening. He glared at his sister-in-law and shook his head.

“Isn’t that what started all this?!” he demanded. “You hired a mage to teach Connor in secret…to protect him.”

“If they discovered Connor had magic,” Isolde cried, “then they’d take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it then…”

Demons were drawn to mages. There were few who had the natural talent to stand against them without formal training. Even Morrigan had learned from her mother when her powers were weak. The system may be flawed, if their experience there with Uldred’s people had shown anything. Many mages viewed it a prison. Not all were like Wynne who was proud of her roots there. But the alternative for children like Connor was to go without guidance, and the guidance he had received had been just enough to make him dangerous from someone who was just powerful enough to be dangerous. The training the apprentices underwent in the Circle may not be the only way to ensure such possessions did not occur, but even those apostates outside the Tower had had some form of education to master their abilities and insulate themselves from potential possession. By keep Connor locked away, Isolde had done the worst thing for him. She had brought them to this point. And Eideann was sick of hearing her voice.

“What are our options?” she asked, looking back. She had brought an ex-Templar and a Senior Enchanter with her. Alistair had a sick look on his face.

“I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child, but he’s an abomination,” he said after a moment. “I’m not sure there’s any choice.”

“I do not like the idea of hurting the boy,” Wynne said with a small nod, “but…”

“We can’t kill a young boy, demon or no demon!” Leliana said sharply, shaking her head. “Please, don’t say we’re considering that!” Eideann drew a deep breath.

“Connor is my nephew, but…he is also possessed by a demon. Death would be…merciful,” Teagan said quietly. 

“No!” Eideann closed her eyes against Isolde as the woman turned to grip Teagan’s sleeve. “What…what about the mage!? He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him?” Eideann looked at her, sheathing her blades.

“Your blood magic-wielding _apprentice_ apostate who spent half his time here poisoning Arl Eamon is not trustworthy. There is nothing he can tell us that a Templar and a Senior Enchanter cannot, and they are here already, and far more likely to be level with us in this regard,” she said simply. 

“And Eamon knew nothing of your plans?” Teagan said, as if he was still having problems understanding how she could be so blind. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Isolde?” He had been down there in the village too, after all. He had seen firsthand the horrors unleashed. Isolde had the audacity to give him a filthy look then.

“Eamon would only demand we do the right thing,” she spat. “I was not going to lose my _son_ to…to _magic_.”

“So you decided to do the wrong thing,” Eideann said darkly. “And now you may lose him anyway, and so much more.”

“Magic…runs in my family,” Isolde said grimly. “The ones who had it were all terrible, sinful men. I didn’t know what to do when I found out!” 

“And so you brought doom upon us all and death to your own son!” Teagan said angrily, and looked away. Isolde was crying again, tears spilling down her cheeks as she looked at them all as if _they_ were the ones to cause it all. 

“No. No please! There must be another way!” she said. Wynne pursed her lips, and Eideann leaned on one of the long tables gracing the hall.

“Where is the Arl?” she asked, and Isolde was quiet a moment before answering.

“Up in his room. I think the demon has been keeping him alive.” Teagan gave a low curse.

“So if we destroy the demon, then…?”

“Then my husband may perish, yes,” the Arlessa said. Eideann was still for a moment.

“There may be a way to save the boy,” Wynne said quietly, but her voice sounded dry, like she did not believe it was possible. Eideann glanced to her and the woman fixed her with her teal stare. “The demon may be confronted in the Fade. Doing so however would require a great deal of lyrium, and more mages.” Eideann looked away, then pushed herself up. 

“I…I need to think,” she said, and then looked to Teagan who nodded. She swept out then, putting as much distance between herself and Isolde as possible. She wandered deeper into the castle, but by now all the servants were dead. The halls were too quiet, and her footsteps echoed as she paced the corridors, angry and frustrated and tired and heartsick.

She found her way by accident to the end of the corridor, where a door stood slightly ajar, and since she could hear someone in the corridor following her, she pushed it open carefully. It was the Arl’s study, a bare stone room with a thin carpet, a few bookshelves, and a massive desk that sat heavy and dominant in the center of the floor. She slipped within and then closed the door softly behind her before sinking back against it and burying her face in her hands.

The Circle Tower had fallen to blood magic some months back, and most of the mages had been killed in the attempt. What mages were left had much to rebuild, and were at least a week away, if not more. There was no lyrium left in the Tower, because the mages had raided the stores when the uprising there had begun, meaning there was nothing to power the ritual. Attempting to go back to Orzammar for more lyrium did not guarantee a delivery, as the dwarves had only just settled their election and the miners had not been digging during those final hectic days. Any delivery would take several weeks to reach them.

There just was not time. Even if that was something she could devote their resources to, there was the matter of the demon and the undead that stalked the halls and town each night. The villagers had only survived that night because of their assistance in defending the town. They would not last another, even if Eideann sent someone to fetch the supplies and tried to defend a town from a siege coming from the castle for the weeks it would take to have assistance brought. 

And then there was Connor. Perhaps he may appear at times a little boy, but he spoke with the voice of the demon, and he had brought destruction and death upon Redcliffe for no greater reason than he had to. 

Arl Eamon may yet die if she killed the demon. Whatever was keeping him alive may cease to hold once the demon was gone, though with the Sacred Ashes there in her pouch and a Spirit Healer nearby, Eideann could see hope in that path. 

Connor may have had good intentions in trying to help his father, but the same thing held true for him as did for Valena the blacksmith’s daughter. Eideann could not sacrifice an entire village for any one person. She was not Isolde. She knew the stakes. She knew also that if she could save him, the Circle would not take him. He was an apostate, trained by a blood mage, and possessed by a demon once before. The fate that awaited him would be Tranquility, if not death. The damage was already done, and no one could turn back time. 

Maker, he was little older than Oren. She felt sick. 

She sank down into a seat and Eamon’s desk and buried her head in her hands.

“Father, what am I meant to do?” she whispered, as if the presence of a study alone would summon him to advise her. There was no reply, so she slammed her hands hard down on the desk, feeling tears prick in her eyes. When she did, something fell, tumbling from atop a pile of books onto the desk before her. 

It was a locket made of soft ceramic, painted with Andraste’s sunburst. 

_Alistair._

She carefully reached for it, noticing the lines in the ceramic where it had been pasted back together with care. It had been shattered into so many pieces, the cracks were like spiderwebs across the surface. Eideann stared at it a moment, and then realized the Arl must have done it himself. And her heart ached a little. That was her sign.

Things could hurt them, but life was not broken; damage may be done, but all is not lost. The Arl had picked up pieces before.

How would that boy in the chambers above live with himself, with the evidence of what he had done plain before him for the rest of his life? How would the Arl live knowing that his son had destroyed the lands he was sworn to defend in trying to save him? 

There had to be some justice in the world for all those who had lost their lives in Redcliffe. There had to be some final end, some peace. To leave it as it was would be to leave hanging threads, haunted dreams for years to come. 

It would break her to do it, but she had to. She had no other choice.

She rose, gently tucking the mended pendant into her tunic, and crossed back to the door. She took a final glance about the office, then closed her eyes and opened the door. 

Teagan was waiting, arms crossed, in the hall, speaking softly with Alistair. The Arlessa sat, staring at nothing, in one of the chairs near the fire, but when Eideann reemerged she leapt to her feet.

“Please,” she said when she saw the look in Eideann’s eyes.

“Teagan,” Eideann said, ignoring the woman. “Keep her here.” He gave a solemn nod, and Isolde was up in an instant, covering the distance between them in an instant, shrieking.

“No! No!” Teagan caught her, holding her back.

“Go. I can’t keep her here for long.” Eideann turned away, drawing her swords, and headed for the steps. 

The upper castle is a maze of twists and turns. The family wing branched off from the main group, and Eideann stepped into it with caution. At her back, Alistair said nothing, and there was a sharpness to his gaze now that showed he hated this as much as she. She turned away from him, and they crossed the hall of the family rooms. It was there that they found Connor, sitting in the middle of the floor of his room, eyes down, staring at his hands. Eideann paused some distance from him, and he looked up. But there was no cruelty in his eyes now, just confusion and fear. 

“Go away,” he said in a thin voice, shaking visibly from the floor. “She won’t like you being here. She’ll just try to hurt you.” Eideann took a breath to steady herself. She had to be strong now. For him.

But she could not shake the image of Oren from her head as she stepped carefully into the room. 

“I’m not afraid of being hurt,” she said quietly, and he looked away, eyes shining with unspilled tears. 

“I know,” he replied, and pushed himself up. “I think the scary lady is afraid of you. She says you’ll ruin everything.” Eideann closed her eyes a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t hear her now, but she’s never very far,” Connor told her, trying to make himself small. “I tried to stop her, but I can’t. She said she’d help father.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “I didn’t think she’d hurt everyone. Honestly, I didn’t.” 

“Do you know what she is, Connor?” Eideann asked him as gently as she could. He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“She’s a bad person,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know her name. She won’t tell me. She says names have power. I heard her in my dreams. And then she was everywhere.” Eideann carefully took another step closer, and Connor did not move away.

“Connor, I need to stop her. But I don’t want to hurt you,” she told him quietly.

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked her, and she nodded. “Are you going to kill me?” She could not reply to that, but he read the answer in her eyes and another tear slipped out. “What’s going to happen to me? When I’m dead?” 

_What would you tell Oren?_

Eideann knelt before him then, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

“The Chantry says we return to the Maker,” she told him softly. 

“He always sounds so scary,” he told her. Maker, he was a little boy. “Will he be angry with me?” Her heart broke, and she shook her head.

“No, my brave little boy,” she said, her voice hoarse and on the verge of breaking. “He Made you, just as you are. He will not be angry.” He bowed his head.

“Is…is it going to hurt much?” he asked her, his voice so quiet she almost did not hear it. She heard Alistair drew a sharp breath and turn away. She did not. She could not.

“No, love. I promise. It will be like falling asleep.” She forced the tears back, and he look toward the corner of the room.

“At least no one will be hurt anymore,” he finally said. “And maybe Father can be helped. That’s all I wanted.” He looked to her again, and she nodded.

“I swear it, Lord Connor,” she told him. He nodded, then gazed at the ground, tears spilling out. He reached for her and she carefully reached to take his hand in hers. “I need you to help me, or I may not win,” she told him quietly.

“I’ll try,” he told her. “I don’t know what to do, but I’ll try.” She squeezed his hand, nodding and then released him, rising and stepping back and drawing her sword. 

And Connor shifted. His body went rigid, and he twisted and contorted.

“You’ll never take him. He’s mine!” the echoing voice of the demon proclaimed, and Connor began to change. His body grew larger, slimmer, horns sprouted from his head, and he morphed in a giant ball of light into the form of a demon. Eideann knew that form. She had seen it in Honnleath with another child and a cat. Desire. How could it have been anything else?

A wave of cold chilled the air about them in the hall, and Eideann was moving, quickly as she could.

“Alistair!” 

She need not have bothered. The templar’s smite came out of nowhere, hammering down on the room with such a force she was certain it had never been so powerful before. His face was a mask of anger and disgust, and he beat the demon down before its spell could take effect. 

Since he was busy hitting the creature with everything available to him, Eideann took point, dancing the same dance of blades that had gotten her through the Circle Tower and everywhere else besides. Her swords cut through demonic flesh, and the demon roared. Alistair’s smite came from nowhere again, with such a force it made her dizzy as well, and she fought against it to battle the demon back.

And then her sword found its torso, went right through, and Eideann stepped back, pulling the sword free. The demon fell to its knees, staring at her, then down at the wound that gaped beneath its hands, and then fell back to the floor.

And there was a flash of light, and the demon was gone, and Connor was all that was left, blood pooling under his hands. He made a few gasping noises, and Eideann took a step towards him.

“NO!” Isolde tore past her, stumbling to her knees, and gathering her boy into her arms. “Stop! Don’t hurt him!” She looked up with wild eyes. “Please have mercy on him! He’s just a boy! He doesn’t deserve this!” 

Eideann stood over them with a bloodstained sword where she lay begging for her son’s life on the carpet, and could not see an Orlesian there. Instead she saw Oriana, and she felt the tears at the corner of her eyes. 

No, he did not deserve it. 

“The demon will continue to hold both Connor and Eamon. Maker, Isolde, he doesn’t want this.” What did she have to do to make this woman see?

“No! But this is my son’s life!” she cried, tears thick and fast now. “There must be another option! Maker, help me! There _must_ be some other way!” Her voice rang through the chamber. “DON’T KILL MY BABY! I’M BEGGING YOU!” 

How many other mothers had screamed for their children as Connor’s undead army tore them from their arms? How many other mothers would do so again if it did not end here?

“There isn’t time,” Eideann said, a tear rolling from her eye. “Isolde, there isn’t time.” 

“We don’t know that!” the Orlesian begged. “It might go away on its own! _You!_ You are a woman! What if this were your son!? Tell me you would not move mountains to save him!” Eideann shook her head.

She was not entirely sure what her own reaction would be in such a situation, but she would not be so cruel to the boy. He was dying already, the blood soaking his silk shirt. 

“Please,” Eideann said, her voice a hoarse whisper, begging herself now she realized. “Please don’t make this harder than it is.” Demons did not just go away on their own. They got worse.

“You’re just like Teagan!” Isolde spat. “Standing there, grim-faced, telling me my son has to die! It doesn’t have to be like this!” There it was then. Even after all of it, she still could not see. “I _order_ you to stop!” 

Enough.

Something snapped within Eideann. She wiped away the tears and then twisted her sword upward in her hand.

“This needs to end,” she said in a cold voice that rang of steel and hate. “ _Now._ ” She brought the pommel down across Isolde’s skull as she had done Teagan, and the woman slumped. Eideann stepped over her body and then knelt, gathering Connor in her arms.

“It…hurts…” he cried, pain thick in his voice, and Eideann felt the tears come out as she rocked him in her arms. She drew Duncan’s dagger from the small of her back.

“I know,” she told him. “I know…” His eyes, a soft grey wet with tears, looked up at her.

“I’m sorry I called her,” the boy said quietly. “It hurts…make it stop…” Eideann nodded and gripped the dagger tighter until her fingers were numb, and she positioned it over his heart. 

And she sang, because she could not think of anything else she could do for him then, a song her mother had sung to her when she was young, to make her fall asleep. It was broken by her tears, but the words were strong, and she slid the dagger down into his heart. His eyes widened and he went stiff with a cry, and then she pulled the dagger free and let it fall from her hands to hold him and rock him. His blood pooled under her fingers and she shed her tears in earnest, bent over his body, head bowed as she sang the words like that was all that mattered.

And Connor slipped away, his face shifting into peace, and she reached to close his eyes with shaking hands. 

_Oren…What have I done?_

She did not look up even when there was the sound of movement beside her. Isolde stirred, and then she heard the woman’s scream of loss and pain.

“What have you _done_?!” the Arlessa cried, shoving her away and bending over her son. Eideann drew back, forcing herself to look into the eyes of the woman whose son she had murdered.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered through tears. “You left me no choice.” She had left Connor with no choice either. There were no choices left. 

“He was just a boy!” Isolde cried and bent, sobbing over her son. “I tried so hard to save him! And what am I left with!? Nothing!” Her hate-filled eyes turned on Eideann. “I wonder how long Eamon will survive without the demon to sustain him…will I lose my whole family do you think?” She shook her head. “Enough! Leave! Leave us! Give me _that_ much at least.” 

Eideann pushed herself up, slowly, and collected her blood-stained swords and dagger from the carpet. And then she glanced at the bereaved Arlessa and the little boy’s body in her arms, and she turned away to leave the woman to her grief. 

Alistair was in the hall, unable to look at her, having fled some time before the Arlessa had awoken. Eideann had not even noticed him go. But when he looked at her now, eyes angry and cold, she raised her chin and made herself meet them. She closed the door for the Arlessa’s sake and took a step forward.

 _Judge me, then,_ she wanted to say. For a moment he could say nothing.

“You killed Connor. You _killed_ him. A little boy. How could you _do_ that?!” he demanded, and his voice was shaking. Eideann said nothing, simply standing under his gaze, tear-trails still fresh on her cheeks, eyes red. He tore his hand through his hair. “There must have been _something_ else you could have done! _Anything_ that didn’t involve killing a child!” The frustration and anger and hurt in his voice made her flinch. “This is the Arl’s son, we’re talking about here! What do you think he’ll say when we revive him?!” Eideann’s eyes narrowed.

“I am a Grey Warden, duty-bound and oath-sworn to battle the Blight. I am the Teryna of Highever, obligated to put the people of Ferelden first in all things. How many other little boys were killed here? How many other little boys met their ends because of all of this?” She shook her head. “Too many. Being the son of an Arl does not make you special, more deserving of life, more deserving of attention when something happens to you. It makes you obligated to give your life for the lives of your people if you must, and Connor did. You heard him. He knew it.” She felt the tears stinging again and shook her head. “I had a choice between ending this and saving what was left of Redcliffe, or spending weeks trying to cobble together enough of the scarce resources to attempt to fight the demon in the Fade while Redcliffe and the surrounding lands were dyed red with blood. Arl Eamon will see that there were larger things at stake.” Alistair shook his head at her.

“You always do this, rationalize every damn decision away like you know everything and you can make everything suit your needs! He was a child, and you killed him, Eideann! I just don’t know how you could _do_ that, how you could _make_ that decision!” 

Had he not seen enough tears? _He_ was the one who should have made the choice. He was the Templar, not her. He was the one who should know better than anyone the difficulty of that situation. 

“An action is not easy just because it is quick. And a longer choice would not be a better choice when time matters more than anything, and a little boy is being held hostage by a demon and made to murder his own people,” she told him. He glared.

“I owe the Arl more than this!” he spat. She closed her eyes, then wet her lips, meeting his eyes.

“So this about you and him and not me at all,” she said curtly.

“No!” he cried, wheeling about. “Well…maybe. I don’t know. I suppose it’s done, isn’t it. It will have to be enough.” He bowed his head, slamming his hand into the wall and giving an angry sound of frustration. “I shouldn’t be second-guessing you like this.” He was speaking to a painting on the wall now, but the words were meant for her. “It’s easy to question when you’re not the one making the decisions. And I’ve left you to do just that, haven’t I?” He let his hand slide down the wall, and glanced back at her, and his eyes were weary and sad. “Why am I getting on your back about it?” he asked softly. “You did what you had to. It’s just…all this death.” She knew. She more than knew. Ostagar, the Deep Roads, the Circle of Magi, the Brecilian Forest…all of it thick with death. He shook his head, wrapping his arms about himself and looking suddenly very small. “How about we just stop there,” he said quietly, “before I do more than just shove my foot in my mouth.” Eideann paused, and then swallowed. He turned, and she reached out for him, barely brushing his arm. He flinched, but paused, and his eyes slid to hers with the weight of sorrow hanging over them like a cloud. 

Eideann reached into her tunic, then took his hand in hers and folded his fingers over the locket from the study. Then she nodded, releasing him, and brushed past him, heading for the stairs. 

Teagan was waiting at the bottom of the steps, Wynne and Leliana loitering nearby. Wynne did not say a word a she descended the steps, but instead slipped up them to the family chambers, and Leliana, after giving Eideann a wary look, followed her. That left only Teagan, who was watching her with quiet eyes.

“I heard Isolde,” he told her quietly, and she just sank back against the wall beside the steps, closing her eyes tight.

“I had no choice,” she told him, and he reached to touch her arm. “All I could see at the end was Oren. All I could see was Oriana. Maker, it’s like it were Fergus’s son, not Eamon’s.” She forced herself to breathe. He was watching her with that quiet look of gentle sense. 

“You did what you needed to, Eideann. I do not doubt that. You are a brave and noble woman. And I wish there were more willing to do what you are willing to do for Ferelden.” She shook her head, eyes sore.

“Don’t praise me, Teagan. I murdered your nephew.”

“You gave him a mercy,” Teagan said, looking away. “Time will tell whether the outcome proves a greater good than it appears now.” He sighed, then shook his head. “It is over. Connor is dead, and the demon gone with him. With its creatures vanquished, the castle is back under our control. Eideann, I thought I’d never see my brother again.” She pushed away from the wall and motioned for him to climb the steps, and so they went up. 

Arl Eamon lay in his chambers in a large, canopied bed. Wynne sat at his side, and Isolde had gone to sit by his other side, sobbing into the pillow on the bed. Leliana was before the fire, keeping an eye on Alistair who was sitting on a couch staring bleakly into his hands like he was the one covered in blood. 

Teagan took in all of them and then crossed to sink into a seat on the bedcovers, gazing down at his brother’s prone form.

“Eamon has much to mourn if he recuperates,” he murmured, and Wynne looked up at him then with sad eyes, shaking her head.

“I have tried, but I cannot wake him.”

“Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life, but he remains comatose,” Teagan said quietly.

“The Urn.” Isolde looked up with reddened eyes from where she had buried her head in her arms on the bedding. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon,” she muttered, staring at her husband with desperation. What miracles she thought she was owed, it did not matter. Eideann did not have the strength left to care about the Arlessa now. She reached into her tunic and pulled forth the pouch containing the Ashes she had taken from the Chantry earlier. She held them out to Teagan who gave her an odd look. She nodded to them.

“The Ashes,” she said softly. “There.” He opened the pouch carefully and removed the small strip of cloth that she had wrapped the ashes in. Then, carefully, he opened it, until he was staring down at a small pile of dark sand in his hands. 

“How?” he asked. “Where did you find it?” She just shook her head, looking away.

“Would you question a miracle, Teagan?” Isolde said softly from the bed. “What’s important is that it is here.”

“You…are right, of course,” Teagan said, carefully passing the Ashes to Wynne. “For now, let’s see if the relic’s healing powers live up to its reputation.” What Wynne did with the Ashes, Eideann did not care to know. She turned away and set her shoulder to the wall, watching Alistair staring at his hands. Then Alistair rose, taking a final look at the bed before heading out into the hall, unable to sit still any longer. There was the soft glow of magic, and Wynne was murmuring something over the Arl’s bed. And then, after what seemed a very long time, the glow drifted away.

There was a soft sound of someone waking, and Eideann looked over to see Isolde leaning over her husband’s bed. The Arl twisted, turning his head, and Isolde gave a soft gasp.

“Where…where am I?” he finally said, his eyes opening blearily. Eideann let out a sigh of relief, and sank down into a seat near the wall.

“Be calm, brother,” Teagan said, leaning over Eamon. “You’ve been deathly ill for a long time.”

“Teagan? What are you doing here? Where is Isolde?” 

“I am here husband,” his wife called softly and he turned to look at her, trying to sit up a little. 

“And Connor?” She had to look away.

“Connor…Connor is dead…” Isolde said, tears coming forth again.

“Then it wasn’t a dream…” Arl Eamon breathed, reaching for her hand. He looked up about the room, and Teagan swallowed.

“Much has happened since you fell ill, Brother. Some of it will not be…easy for you to hear.” Eideann rose quietly from the chair and then headed for the door. It would take awhile to fill Eamon in, and she could not hear the details again, not now. She desperately needed some air.

***

He turned the locket over in his hands, peering at it before tipping his head back against the wooden wall of the stables and shifting his feet in the pile of straw he sat on. The place smelled like Redcliffe, of course it did, and the stench covered up the smell of rotting bodies that had covered the area. He had not attempted to return to the others in the Chantry yet. He needed to think.

He had never met Connor, but the boy had been Eamon’s son. He was born not long after Alistair had been sent to the Chantry, and may well have been the catalyst for that decision in the first place. But Alistair had born the child no ill will. And to see Eideann sobbing over him as she slid a knife between his ribs was too much. He had fled the room, haunted by her song. 

He would never be able to look the Arl in the eye again. Eamon had given him everything, and he had repaid it with the murder of his son. But Eideann had been right as well, and he knew it. There really had been no other choice, and he should not have let her do it. He should have done it himself. Maker, he should have done all of it himself. 

Instead he had gotten so angry at her he had punched the stone wall, and his hand was sore now, but he was determined to bear the pain as punishment. 

The locket was cool in his fingers, rough where the cracks spider-webbed the surface. But there was no escaping it. It was hers. 

He heard the door open, and the sound of someone taking the castle steps two at a time, and glanced over to see Eideann pace into the center of the courtyard. She had no idea he was there, obviously, and he watched as she paced in a circle, shaking her head, and then finally ran her hands into her hair and let out a wordless cry at the sky, anger and pain thick on her features. And then she bowed her head and clenched her fists and stood there under the grey sky. It had threatened rain the past two days, but only then it came.

It plinked softly on her armor, ringing out gently across the courtyard like a chorus of small bells. And Eideann buried her face in her hands and let it drench her to the bone.

Only then did she turn and catch sight of him sitting in the barn. Her hair was plastered over her scalp, as it had been that day so long ago in the river. She had weary eyes and a haunted look, and she stood still a moment, despite the rain, staring at him. And then she turned away, marching through the portcullis and out onto the bridge. He turned his face away to look at his mother’s locket. And then he looped it over his neck and pushed himself up to follow her, strapping on his sword. 

He followed her all the way down the village, where she kept walking right until the edge of the wharf. And then he watched as she walked out to the end of one of the wooden docks and sank into a seat to stare out over the waters. She pulled off her boots and let her toes sink into the water, and then she hunched over, letting the water wash away her pain. He crossed to her, but did not sit, standing instead in the pouring rain. And she did not look to him either.

Finally he held out the locket on its chain about his neck.

“This…is my mother’s amulet,” he told her quietly. “It has to be. Where did you find it?” She drew a deep breath.

“I found it in the Arl’s study,” she told him quietly. That gave him pause, and he mulled it over a moment, feeling the pain of guilt as he stared at the painted symbol on the ceramic worn by time.

“Then he must have found it after I threw it at the wall…” he said slowly, “and he…repaired it…and kept it.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that?” She shifted and kicked her feet slowly, watching the water ripple about her.

“Perhaps,” she said softly into the rain, “you mean more to him than you think.”

“I…” he looked at the amulet, then up at the castle. “I guess you could be right.” He swallowed hard, finding a lump in his throat, a knot of emotion he did not want to feel. “Eideann?” She looked to him. “Thank you. I…I mean it.” She nodded and he considered her.

“Did you remember me mentioning it?” She did not make any confirmation or denial, but she had no other way or knowing, so he shook his head, tucking away the amulet and gazing out over the lake. “I’m…more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.”

“Of course I remembered,” she told him sharply, looking up, but there was pain in her eyes, like he had assumed she was not capable of loving him. “You’re special to me.” He gazed at her a moment, looking into her eyes the color of rain, and then he smiled, dropping his gaze.

“Is this the part where the music starts and we begin dancing?” he asked quietly, too soon for joy, but this was bittersweet. She just looked at him for a long moment, and then carefully rose, barefoot on the docks, and took his hand in hers, wrapping her own arm about his neck. And then she began to move, slowly, in a simple circle, leaning into him. And he leaned back into her. He let out a long slow breath and then closed his eyes, feeling her, and the rain, and listening to the beat of the waves washing against the wharf. And for a moment, it was enough, just that.  
 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redcliffe mourns its dead; Arl Eamon puts forward his plan to make Alistair King; Eideann and Alistair finally ride for Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

Eideann did not look well in black, Zevran decided as he nocked his arrow and dipped the padded tip into the flames of the braziers burning along the water’s edge. She stood away from the main bulk of the village, wrapped in her black fur-lined warden cloak, a thin veil of black net covering her hair. Armor was one thing, but this was funeral attire. The winds pulled at the hem of her gown, borrowed from one of the villagers who would have no need of it anymore. 

She had not spoken to anyone for days, and he had learned from a grim-faced Leliana what had happened at the castle. When the rain had abated, the villagers had finally been given the chance to mourn their dead, and the remaining guardsmen had brought the body of the boy forth on a black shrouded pyre and settled him into the first boat. 

Zevran drew back the arrow and aimed along the shaft, then let fly. It arced over the waves, landing in one of the boats carrying the dead, and the boat went up in flames above the water. 

Eideann Cousland had killed that boy, and with good reason, but he knew enough of her to realize she did not take such deaths lightly. She was not an assassin as he was, taught to see death as a part of life, taught to remove himself from the situation.

If Rinna was anything to go by, he had lost a little of that ability himself. 

Eideann was not just watching the passing of the villagers slain in the weeks of horror. She was not saying her farewells to a boy whose life she had taken. She had never been given a rite for her family at Highever, and this was her first opportunity. 

Another boat lit up and Leliana at his side drew back her bow again with a somber expression. Beyond her, the nobles stood, the woman sobbing into the sickly older man’s shoulder, Bann Teagan standing beside Alistair – Prince Alistair apparently – with an expression of numb despair. Alistair himself had his arms crossed, and he forced himself to watch the boats. 

There were Chantry sisters giving rites over the bodies. Most had been burned before the attack, but many more had made up the bulk of Redcliffe’s undead army, and now they were being dealt with. Sten, wiping his brow, shoved the next boat from the dock and let it drift away before turning for the next. They were piled several high in each boat, except for the little Lord. There would not be enough boats otherwise. 

Zevran fired another arrow towards the boat Sten had released, then glanced sidelong to the Arl and Arlessa. They stood by the boat bearing their son. He would go last. It did not need to be said. He had been the last to die. 

Arl Eamon looked pale and ill yet, but he was on his feet for the first time in days. Whatever the group that had gone on from Haven had found, it seemed to have done the trick, but slowly. Despite the fact his wife was leaning on him, he was leaning on a sylvanwood cane. He had a large beard, once a dark auburn now shot through with grey like his hair, more grey than red after his experience under the power of the demon. But he was alive. 

Zevran sighed, nocking another arrow. 

And then finally Bann Teagan moved to push the boy’s boat out onto the waves. Zevran aimed, but something else caught his eyes. Eideann Cousland stood, Warden bow in hand now, and she drew back the arrow to her cheek. It flew straight and true, landing in the boat, which flared up in flames. Zevran lowered his own arrow, dousing the end in water. Eideann relaxed her bow and then turned away. Zevran shook his head.

“That little boy is dead because of us,” Leliana said softly, too softly for the Arl and Arlessa to overhear. “She has not been back to the castle since. Alistair is worried, but she won’t speak to anyone, not even him. Perhaps you can convince her?” She looked to Zevran with a gentle gaze, sorrow deep in the depths, and he sighed, then shouldered his bow. 

“I could try, but I imagine the words of an assassin like you or I would go unheard for now,” he said. “I imagine, as a bard, you have been called upon to kill.” Leliana narrowed her gaze, looking out across the lake towards the line of burning vessels carrying souls across the Fade as their spirits would cross the Fade. 

“Often,” she finally admitted. “I didn’t like it, but I did it anyway.”

“You didn’t like it?” he asked, eyeing her sidelong, his expression serious. “You didn’t like the thrill of the hunt?”

“I suppose…I did like that.” She looked to him. “The hunt…not the killing.”

“The killing,” Zevran said quietly, thinking of Rinna and Taliesen, “just signals the end of the hunt. Without it, the chase goes on. You killed your marks cleanly, I hope.” 

“Whenever possible.”

“Good,” he murmured. “When the prey is caught, it deserves a good death. A clean death.” He looked at the boy’s boat, then turned away. “Perhaps you are right. I will try to speak with her.” Leliana bowed her head and he stepped away from her on the pier then, moving towards the shore. He passed by Alistair, who gave him a quiet look that spoke a thousand words and none, and then crossed the red clay of Redcliffe’s shoreline and headed towards the Chantry. 

He found Eideann standing outside the building, peering over the lake from an overlook that the Chantry sisters had segmented with stone archways. He drew close to her quietly, loud enough to avoid startling her though, and leaned against the pillar of the archways, crossing his arms and looking back to see. The sky was not so thick with smoke and ashes here from the pyres and the boats out on the lake. The sun cut through and bathed the Chantry in light instead, and he considered the building before glancing sidelong to Eideann. 

“Most people would be seeking absolution within the Chantry,” he said after a moment. She did not look to him.

“Why? I live with my choices. I need no absolution. Not from a Maker they say has turned away and was not watching anyway.” 

“Alistair said…you told the little boy he would go to the Maker’s side when he asked.” She shook her head, still looking over the waters.

“The truth doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “What matters is he believed he would find peace there, and it brought him some peace here. The Maker does not need to be real, nor do any other gods. The power is in believing.” She glanced to him with a sigh. “I do not regret it. But…I’ve watched too many little boys die these past eight months. It becomes too much to bear.” He nodded, then we this lips.

“ _Bella_ , the others are worried for you.”

“I can’t talk to them. I can’t see their faces, look them in the eyes, and deal with the accusing in their stares. I killed a little boy, Zevran. And I cannot even say I regret doing it.” She pulled her veil up a little closer against the breeze that rippled over her skirts, and then she sighed. “Thank you…for trying to bridge the gap.” 

“Me? A peacekeeper?” Zevran asked with a small smile. She looked to him, and smiled as well.

“That’s what an assassin is sometimes, is it not?” she said wryly, then looked back towards the Chantry, her brow falling a little into concern and weariness. “I may need you soon, my friend.” 

“Always, _Bella_. Say the word and I am yours,” he grinned. She shook her head. 

“I’m serious now. We will ride to Denerim soon, and that will be dangerous for all of us. I know the Crows may be pursuing you. If there is any place they will find you, it is there. You know it too.” She looked to him, her rainy eyes filled with something…worry? Or determination? “I will understand if you wish to walk away now.” 

“I have sworn my life to you, and I shall stay, _Bella_.” He thought of the dagger in Orzammar, and he grimaced. “They may hunt me, but they will do so wherever I go. I…will see this through.” She nodded, then crossed her arms about herself, drawing her cloak close against the wind.

“I must…go and speak to the Arl.” She had not done so yet. She had been avoiding him for the days he had spent recovering. Or perhaps she had been avoiding the Arlessa, whose eyes burned with hatred whenever Eideann was nearby, and whose grief was worn publicly for the world to see her pain. It felt a pantomime farce, or would have, if there was not true anguish in her expression, and if so many did not lie dead to placate her fears.

“ _Bella_ , should you need me to take out any high profile targets, you need only say the word,” he replied and Eideann considered him before drawing a breath.

“If we go that route, we won’t win. The only high profile target you need to worry about now, Zevran, is the Archdemon.” And then she gathered her skirts and descended the stepping stones buried in the clay and grass towards the village proper.

Zevran watched her go, then sighed, shaking his head. He followed after a moment before turning off and taking the path to the Gull and Lantern. Within he found Berwick, hunched over a mug of some sort of mead, shoulders tense. Zevran slid into a seat next to him and called over the serving maid, Bella, who swung by to deposit off a mug of fine Antivan brandy. Zevran took a sip, smiled to himself, and then looked to the elf beside him. Berwick was watching him, eyes wary, and he swallowed at the look in Zevran’s eye.

“So,” Zevran said after a moment, “tell me again about this Rendon Howe.” Berwick gave a grimace, then turned his face away.

“What else can I tell you?” he asked. 

“Start from the top,” Zevran said. “And be very specific. If you’re lucky, I shall let you leave with all your fingers. Talking is very much in your benefit.” The spy quivered a little, then turned his head away. 

“Don’t hurt me, please. I’ll tell you what you anything you want to know. I’ll tell you a thousand times. Just…let me go. Please…”

“Let’s start with this: tell me everything you know about the Arl’s alliance with Loghain.”

***

The fire that crackled in the hearth was the only noise in the room as Arl Eamon stood, gazing into the flames, hands crossed behind his back. Isolde was nowhere to be found, and for that Eideann was grateful, because it was enough that Connor was dead. Neither of them had any desire to see one another. 

The borrowed gown she wore was out of respect, and felt strange after so many months in leggings and armor. She had never been far from her practice leathers in Highever, it was true, and she had her own armor dyed in Cousland blue and silver, though that was long gone now. All the same she had spent her evenings there mostly in gowns. Since coming south, that had completely changed, and to feel the lack of leggings or the absent weight of her armor was strange. Underneath the skirts she still wore her Warden uniform boots, but the rest was tucked safely away in her rooms at the inn. She refused to stay in the castle. That was out of respect as well. It did not feel right to take advantage of the Arl’s hospitality after what she had done there. She had not earned it, and the entire place made her feel the weight of death on her shoulders. Alistair had taken rooms at the castle, along with a few of the others, but Zevran had stayed in the inn in the room beside hers, presumably to keep a watch on her.

She carefully brushed her hand down the skirts, a simple, black dyed cotton that did not quite fit, and turned her face from the fire. Alistair was sitting at one of the long tables not too far from her. After his outburst and their subsequent slow ‘dance’ in the rain to banish a moment of grief, they had hardly spoken. It made her heart hurt, but she was glad of the chance to think about everything without having to think about him too. Of course he _was_ everything now, so at best her avoidance had not really served their goals. With what she knew about him now, he was in the thick of all the future events, and she really could not dance about them. 

Bann Teagan emerged from down the steps leading to the family quarters, his look tired but firm. He had grieved in his own way, and now stood strong for all their sakes. Eideann recognized the look in his eyes. It was the same patience and strength he had had when he waited under the tree at Fergus’s wedding for her to grow up and be an adult about the whole thing. He had been the one to tell all of it to Eamon. Alistair had filled in the missing pieces from there. The Arl knew everything now, even the briefest glimpse of what had happened at Highever. Alistair had shared those details as well. Eideann had not even spoken to the man. 

But there she was, standing in his hall, wearing a borrowed mourning dress, trying to somehow put into words the depths of her sorrow for the loss of his son. And she was. Except she would do it again, because that little boy had needed mercy, and so had Redcliffe, and the Arlessa was never going to let any of them have it. 

Teagan brushed her arm as he passed her, giving her a small nod, and then crossed to Eamon by the hearth. He exchanged a few words with him, and Eamon looked back, eyes full of a heavy sadness. Eideann had met him briefly, but he spent most of his days in Redcliffe. All the same she could not remember such sorrow living in his gaze before, and knew the cause was her.

“My…my Lord.” She never stammered. And yet there it was. There it had happened. She was frightened.

He held up a hand, silencing her before she could truly begin, and scanned her with his gaze before wetting his lips.

“When I first saw you, you were a babe in your mother’s arms. She was so proud of you.” He lowered his gaze. “I know you did what you had to do. I grieve for my son’s death, but I believe if you had not acted as you did, things would have been much worse.” It did not bring her any comfort to hear him speak the words. “I am in your debt,” he said, looking back up at her, “my Lady Eideann.” She shook her head, but he pushed on. “Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?” 

She blinked, recoiling at the thought. She killed his son and had arrived on his doorstep to tell him half the noble houses were at war, and the other half were dead through betrayal, the King was dead, and there was a Blight sweeping Ferelden. 

“I neither need nor want any reward from you,” she said sharply, perhaps too sharply. She wanted nothing for the _service_ of killing his only child. 

“I…simply mean to honor your efforts. Nothing more,” he told her quietly, and she shook her head.

“I mean no disrespect, my Lord, but I do not want a reward for what I have done. The reward is that the people in the village and a few here still live.” He nodded quietly. 

“Bryce Cousland’s daughter in my hall, savior of my land,” he murmured, then raised his chin to stare at her. “I name you and your companions Champions of Redcliffe, my Lady, for saving my people, in spite of the costs.” 

“I…” She swept a curtsy and held it, head bowed. “Thank you, your grace.” It seemed enough. Alistair gently touched her arm, and he was watching her like he did not know what to make of this Eideann. She pursed her lips. 

“We should speak of Loghain, brother,” Teagan said in a firm tone, and Eideann looked up to the Guerrin brothers, drawing herself up and then taking a step forward across the carpets. The borrowed skirts trailed a little behind her. They were made for someone slightly taller. That someone would not need them anymore. “I was there when he announced he was taking the throne,” Teagan admitted. “He is mad with ambition.” Eideann’s eyes flickered to the Arl. It was perhaps true, but she was more inclined to believe he was mad with a heady mix of power and fear both. Loghain was the sort of man who felt he needed a reason. His own power just was not enough. 

“Mad indeed,” Eamon agreed. “Mad enough to kill Cailin, to try to kill me. Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped.” The Arl glanced to Alistair and Eideann as if to signal they too were involved in the conversation. “What’s more we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end.”

“But you can unite the nobility against Loghain, can’t you?” Eideann asked nervously. She had her own title of course, but she was a Grey Warden, and to some people that would matter. She was also the second child, known more for her blade-skill and abrasive personality where it came to her suitors than any scion of the court. She had not had the years it took to cement the political alliances that men like Arl Eamon or her father had had. 

“I could unite them, yes,” Arl Eamon replied quietly, “but not all oppose him. Someone _must_ surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance of fighting the darkspawn.” Eideann crossed her arms, drawing a deep breath.

“Loghain must capitulate then,” she said firmly. That was not negotiable. The alternative would mean Alistair and she would both die, and probably Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan as well. The Loghain would rule with Arl Howe to attend him and Ferelden truly would be lost. 

“Loghain will pay for his heinous crimes,” Eamon assured her, “but our armies must be saved for the darkspawn.” He had been told of the Grey Warden army massing at Soldier’s Peak then. Good. The Arl grimaced. “I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery, but it will be but a claim against proof. We will need someone whose claim to the throne is stronger than his daughter, the Queen’s.” Teagan looked concerned, turning to his brother. 

“Are you speaking of Alistair, brother?” he asked, worry thick in his voice. Eamon gave him a firm look.

“I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative, but the unthinkable has occurred,” he said quietly, seriously. Eideann wet her lips. She had known since the moment Alistair had told her who he was on the hills above Redcliffe that this would be the case. Eamon had seen it as easily as she, and even Teagan had come to the same conclusion. Alistair, however, seemed a little in shock. He was staring between them all warily, like he had no idea what to do or what was happening. He had none of the political training they did. He was not always looking seven steps ahead to a time when a plan may play out. He just acted and took whatever consequences came from it. Eideann did not dare look at him, though she felt the tension coming from him in waves. 

“Anora’s claim is built on marriage. To defeat such a claim, you will need the bloodlines of the Silver Knight. You need a descendant of Calenhad,” she said simply. It was the plan she had already determined was their way forward anyway, though she knew it could lead to places she would not be able to follow. It did not matter. What she had told him was true. It was the responsibility of the nobility to sacrifice their lives for the good of their people, whether that was by dying or by chaining themselves to a fate they did not desire. None of them chose their fate. 

Arl Eamon considered her with Connor’s grey eyes. He had written to Cailin to set aside Anora and to find a different bride. Cailin had chosen Celene out of necessity, but Eamon was no fool. He knew the power of the Terynirs. He was not going to gainsay her now in this when he had been trying to use her politically for years without knowing a thing about her. She had just saved his people. He would pay that back in political clout, because that was the sort of man he was. 

“Teagan and I have a claim through marriage,” he agreed, “but we would be seen as opportunists. Alistair’s claim _is_ by blood.” 

And it finally hit Alistair then what they were saying. He took a step back, shaking his head and putting up his hands.

“And what about what I want?” he said angrily. Eamon fixed him with a grim stare.

“You have a responsibility,” he told him coolly. “Without you, I will have to surrender to Loghain. Is that what you want?” Alistair stared at him, face a mask of horror and indecision, and then he looked to Eideann who met his eyes with her own. She could feel the political flames rekindled inside her and knew what he saw in her gaze frightened him. He shook his head, and then finally looked up to Eamon.

“No, but…I…” He looked away, brows knitted, and he brought his hand up to clutch at the pendant he was wearing about his neck now – his mother’s – buried beneath the silk of his Warden tunic. “Yes, my Lord.” He sounded like a child when he gave in. Eideann considered him a moment. He would need to get beyond that quickly. Arl Eamon just sighed.

“I shall call a Landsmeet,” he said. “Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin.” And that would be the hard part. Eamon’s steely eyes bore into her, and Eideann met them. “What do you say to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.” He did not need it. It was a formality, she knew, but he had said it in a very friendly sort of way. She felt a stirring of guilt at the word friend after all the pain she had caused him. And she knew as well he was deferring to the title of Teryna. They would need that title before the end, and best it start getting its full use now. 

“I say we proceed with your plan.” Her voice was clear, firm, and sounded like her father’s had when he threw the weight of Highever behind a decision. She was proud of it. A flicker of recognition passed Arl Eamon’s eyes too, and he nodded.

“Very well, I will send out the word.” His eyes darkened then, and he gritted his teeth. “But before we proceed, I believe there is still the matter of the mage.” 

Eideann felt a shiver of fear she forced away. Teagan nodded and a guard at the far end of the hall vanished into the nearest corridor, where he returned moments later with another contingent of guards and the mage, Jowan. 

He stood before them sheepishly, still in the same stinking apprentice robes they had found him in. His hair was greasy and slicked back from his face, and he had a broken look in his eyes. He paused before them, and Eideann stepped back, sweeping her skirts across the carpet and turning to stand with Teagan and the Arl. Alistair, uncertain, stepped up beside her, but he would not look at her and was still annoyed. 

“Jowan,” the Arl said in a tone full of controlled anger, “what you have done is not in question. You tried to assassinate me and set into motion a series of events that nearly destroyed everything I cherish. What have you to say in your own defense.” 

To his credit, Jowan remained true to his convictions in that moment. He fixed the Arl with his repentant stare, and shifted uncomfortably between the guardsmen flanking him on either side.

“Nothing, my Lord,” he said. “Other than to say I am sorry. I expect no mercy for what I have done.” 

“I see.” Eamon turned away slightly then, brows low over his eyes. “Lady Eideann, have you anything to say on Jowan’s behalf?” Jowan’s eyes flickered to her, and Eideann met them. She thought of Connor, which hurt, and how he had summoned the demon. He had been taught somehow, and that somehow had come from Jowan. Jowan was a blood mage, he had admitted as much himself, and he had enabled all of it to go wrong. Connor had summoned the demon only to save his father, who was only sick because Jowan had poisoned him. 

And yet he was no use to them dead. He had the proof that Loghain had given him the task. An execution, which was what Eamon seemed to want, was not something she could choose when the possibility still lay that they would need him to bear proof of Loghain’s treachery. 

Anyway, there was a better punishment for teaching such things to a child, when Jowan himself was barely more than a child in magic, and dangerous. He had been fleeing the Circle. He had made his deal with Loghain because he thought it would save his life. Eideann had been to the Circle Tower and seen the destruction the blood mages had met there. They would not let him roam free. 

She had heard the Rite of Tranquility severed a mage from his connection to the Fade and all emotion. Jowan’s actions had gutted Ferelden, left Redcliffe an empty shell. That was what he must be to repent.

“He seems earnest in his desire to repent,” she said quietly, but her look was like ice.

“And what would you have me do?” Eamon asked bitterly. “As the injured party, my ability to see the merciful path is…strained.”

“It is no mercy, but it serves our purpose, your grace,” Eideann said quietly. “Give him to the Circle of Magi. Irving and Greagoir own us a few favors. I will write, with Wynne, and insure he suffers for his crimes in a way that leaves him capable of incriminating Loghain.” Eamon considered her, then his eyes narrowed and he nodded, seeing the logic in it. Time had tempered his heart to patience, even under such duress.

“Wisely said,” he told her, and then looked to Jowan with eyes like coal. “You will wait in your cell until we can send a detachment in the morning to escort you across the lake. I hereby turn you over the Circle of Magi. May the Maker have mercy on your soul.” 

“Thank you, my Lord, my Lady,” Jowan said, bowing to them with somber eyes. His voice was quiet, defeated. He took a step back, and the guards closed about him to escort him away. Arl Eamon considered Alistair and Eideann then, and sighed.

“Back to the matter of the Landsmeet,” he said quietly. “I will send out my riders this very day, but it will take some time to recall my forces and organize our allies. I would prefer to wait until that is done before we arrive in Denerim. Teagan says Loghain has put a bounty on your heads, and we will want the support of numbers to challenge him in the capital. If I give my men two days to gather, we can ride for the capital not long after.

“Arl Eamon,” Eideann said slowly, turning to him, “we will need to send word to Soldier’s Peak as well. I have emissaries from the Dalish, the Circle, and Orzammar there waiting on news.”

“Of course. A messenger shall ride forth tonight.” 

“Then might I borrow paper and ink?” she asked and he nodded, motioning for one of the few remaining servants to attend to the matter. Eideann thanked him and then stepped down, crossing the hall with the intent to return to her rooms at the Gull and Lantern.

“Lady Cousland.” Arl Eamon’s voice stopped her and she looked back, eyes watching him cautiously in the firelight. “There are chambers here for you, should you wish them, though I know why you avoid my castle. I say again, I understand what you have done, and I am grateful for the lives of my people.” Eideann turned and swept another low curtsy before crossing to the door to be let out. The sound of someone following her was clear on the carpet behind her, but she did not need to turn to know who it was. Alistair drew alongside her, warden silk tunic dark enough for funeral gear for a man pretending to be a commoner. He caught her wrist.

“Eideann, wait.” She looked back, and he narrowed his eyes. “You planned this. You agreed with this. With this…plan…to set me up against Anora.” Eideann sighed, gently pulling her hand free and turning to him.

“You are Maric’s son.”

“And she’s the Queen!” he said. “Why can’t we stop Loghain and keep her as the Queen? Why involve me?” She just looked at him then, silent and sad, and finally turned away towards the hall.

“It is not what you wanted, and I am sorry. But we do not get to choose.” He followed her, unsatisfied with the answer.

“No, talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking, what you’re doing. This involves me!” 

“There are many ways this could end up,” she said, as the guards held open the gates for them. “We must be prepared to answer all of them. There are several ways Loghain gained his power. Anora may have given him the power herself, and he acts on her behalf, in which case the poisoning of the Arl, the massacre of my own family, and the Civil War are of her own doing. Or, in a different scenario, he has seized control from her, and she cannot reclaim it from him. This means she is too weak to stand before a threat that has nearly destroyed this land. Or, in a third case, she has been unable to sway the Bannorn into confirming her as Queen in a true Landsmeet, either because the Bannorn will not choose her, or because the Bannorn will not gather for a Landsmeet in the first place. Either way she is proven a poor choice, and Loghain has seized the throne from Ferelden where it is held in trust for the next monarch. We cannot expose any of these, or any other truths. Perhaps she will be a good Queen, but we do not know, until we give her a test of her own. It is not enough to just face off against Loghain and leave her unquestioned when this has happened on her watch.” She sighed. “In politics, you must always know the strengths and weaknesses of your allies and your enemies, or you will die when your allies become your enemies. You are the only one with any ability to stand as a second option for the throne. All others, myself included, are beneath your claim.”

“Anora is political,” Alistair said. “She knows this…”

“Does she?” Eideann shook her head. “I do not know, and I will not find out unless she is put to the test.” 

“So…you’re not actually asking me to be King.”

“Ferelden needs a ruler, and a good one. I have not cast my lot in either way. I would like to see the options,” she replied quietly, and he breathed a sigh.

“Maker, good, because I thought for a moment you actually meant to do it.” She shook her head.

“Perhaps I will. I do not yet know. But if I decide to help you win the throne, you will be the first one I tell,” she said, and he nodded.

They were almost at the inn by now. Shayle was moving the boulders they had readjusted back into their original gaping holes to clear the path for wagons that would hopefully soon come once word reached Arl Eamon’s men. As they neared the golem, Shayle paused.

“Ah, it has returned. Good. It shall tell the Sister to stop making noise.” Eideann blinked, and Shayle pointed down towards the square where a small group was gathered before the Chantry. Leliana was in the middle, and she had her lute, and Eideann sighed.

“Let them be, Shayle. If they want to dance or sing, if it brings them some comfort, who am I tell them no?” Alistair shook his head.

“Once you hear what she’s been singing you may change your mind. She’s finally put all the words to her song, the one she was writing while we were in Orzammar.” He glanced to her and Eideann blinked, then proceeded to the steps to find out what he meant.

Leliana was seated on the Chantry steps, her fingers dancing over the gentle lilting song. About her in the square, villagers were standing or sitting to listen. The bard looked up as she approached, and then gave the slightest of smiles and started the tune in full. 

Her voice was loud and clear in the air of the afternoon, lending voice to the story she had been trying to tell since Orzammar, or maybe earlier.

“I feel sun through the ashes in the sky. Where’s the one who’ll guide us into the night? What’s begun is the war that will force this divide. What’s to come is fire and the end of time.” Eideann paused on the hill and felt a little chill settle over her at the words of the chorus. “I am the one who can recount what we’ve lost. I am the one who will live on.” 

Crestwood. Leliana was singing her words from Crestwood. Ashes in the sky, night, the war…fire to come. Maker, the damn bard was singing about her. She felt uncomfortable. She descended the steps and gently pushed her way through the crowd.

“I have run through the fields of pain and sighs. I have fought to see the other side. I am the one who can recount what we’ve lost. I am the one who will live on.” 

“What are you doing?” she asked, and Leliana strummed the last of her song before looking up.

“Helping,” she said.

“How is singing about…about _this_ helping?” Leliana gave her a level look, devoid of smiles.

“You need to reach the people when you go to Denerim, not just the nobles. I know how to play the Game, Lady Cousland.” She carefully set down her lute. “You need a legend that people can carry forth, something that makes sure you are in the minds of all those people in the city. They shall sing of you in houses and in halls. And they respect you.” Eideann stared a moment, then looked about.

“I…I don’t want a song, Leliana.” 

“Someone would write one,” she said simply. “What sort of bard would I be if I did not take the time to tell the story?” Then she rose. “You will live on. That is more than Loghain can say.” Eideann sighed, then looked at the villagers who were watching the exchange warily. And then she thought of the pyres and how much had been lost, and she sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “Just…don’t embellish me.” She turned away and Leliana smiled.

“Only a little, I promise,” she called, then launched into a different song as Eideann made her way up to the inn. She paused for a moment in the common room, where Zevran was sitting with Berwick, and Felsi looked ready to dump an entire tankard of ale over Oghren, and then she let things be because, Maker, she could not handle much more today. She had reached her limit. 

The messenger caught up with her from Eamon, bearing paper and ink, and so she settled down at the table to write her missives while Alistair fetched them some sweet wine from Bella. 

The first was the note for Jowan, penned in a rough script, which she made Alistair sign as well for good measure and then set aside to dry while Alistair went to find Wynne. The mage had been administering in the Chantry to any remaining wounded. The second letter she wrote in triplicate. The first to Emissary Pether from the Circle; the second to Emissary Fellhammer, one of King Bhelen’s generals; and the third to Emissary Caron who was waiting at Soldier’s Peak with a small contingent while the other Dalish tried to reach the other nearby clans. Then she penned a final fourth note for Levi Dryden, who she had named steward of Soldier’s Peak before she had left. The poor man had his work cut out for him keeping the different factions from one another’s throats as it was. She would at least give him warning. 

She folded these and labelled them, and then gave them to the messenger, who had waited while she wrote them. He was barely of an age to grow a mustache, but he grinned and tucked them into his leather satchel and then thanked Bella for his drink with a kiss on the cheek. 

Wynne showed up not long afterward, and skimmed the letter before signing it. She looked tired, and offered to take the letter back to the castle herself as she was retiring for the day. Eideann let her take it. Wynne had never given her reason to distrust her, and she knew that the woman had been through a lot in the past few days. She harbored her own spirit, Eideann recalled, and the entire ordeal with Connor had shown Wynne the worst she could be if she let herself slip into the darkness. 

That left her alone then with Alistair, who sat in silence and drank in a manner that made her think of Oghren. So she joined him, unspeaking, simply filling up their cups each time they were emptied, until the wine bottle was empty, and she was filled with a warm buzz. 

But she still felt cold. Part of that was because of Connor, and part of it was because of the darkspawn blood coursing within her now. She was pondering that when Alistair finally broke the silence.

“Eideann?” 

“Yeah?” 

“If I become King, what happens to you?” he asked. She gave a mirthless laugh, shaking her head.

“I’m the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. I’m sure I will manage,” she told him, knowing full well that was not what his question was. He just fixed her with a look and she sighed. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, yes?” she offered instead, and he too sighed, then pushed himself up.

“I told Eamon I would check on Mother Hannah,” he told her, and so she let him go. She sat alone then, watching and waiting for Zevran, who finally released a pale Berwick, confident he had all the information he was going to get. The spy retreated to his rooms upstairs, and Zevran crossed to join her.

“How did it go?” he asked, leaning on the table. She just looked away.

“As well as to be expected. Alistair hates the idea, Arl Eamon is coping as best he can, and we’ve set the wheels in motion,” she replied. “I have something I need you to do for me. In secret.” He gave her an odd look, so she pushed herself up and beckoned for him. “Here. Come with me.”

***

Everything happened so quickly after that. The bulk of Eamon’s army began to filter in from across the Hinterlands, and Arl Teagan’s men arrived from Rainesfere and joined the main force. Eideann watched as Redcliffe filled up again, this time with armored and serious men, until at last Eamon was prepared to leave. He left Bann Teagan in charge of Redcliffe then, and came down to bid farewell to his people in person. The Arlessa did not come with him. Then, with a handful of retainers, Ser Perth and his remaining knights, Eideann’s company, and a trio of wagons, they prepared the set off.

Eideann strapped on her swords and then shouldered her pack, heading down the steps with Zevran in her wake. She bid farewell to Bella at the door, and the woman gave her a sad little smile and wished her luck before pressing a bottle of wine into her hands for the road, regardless of Lloyd the barkeeper’s protests. Eideann took it with thanks, and Zevran slipped it into her pack. 

“Oghren!” The dwarf was standing by the door, grinning at Felsi like a fool, but he looked up when Eideann called for him, and then sighed.

“Wait! You’re leaving?” Felsi asked. “You just got here. I haven’t called you a shaft-rat yet…” Oghren smirked.

“Oh, you can’t keep the Archdemon waiting,” he told her whimsically, and Eideann exchanged a glance with Zevran. “You hurt its feelings, it might just turn the whole Blight around and go home. Nobody wants that.”

“If that was all I had to do…” Eideann muttered and Zevran chuckled, then nodded towards the door.

“I shall meet you outside, _Bella_ ,” he said and slipped away. Eideann glanced to Oghren.

“We need to go,” she told him, and he sniffed. 

“Well…you don’t need to fight it right now, do you?” Felsi asked them. “I mean, couldn’t you have a pint first?” She looked to Oghren. “You could call me a surly bronto, I could tell you tha you smell like nug droppings…” Eideann rolled her eyes. 

“Oghren, I’ll see you outside,” she called and let herself out. Maker, how that was ever going to work, she had no idea. But if anyone could make it work, it would be Oghren. 

She crossed to the stables where Alistair was looking over their horses with the help of the Redcliffe horsemaster, a Marcher called Dennet who kept slapping at Alistair’s hands for doing the reins wrong. Eideann stood back and let the man work, since he was obviously determined it be done properly, and Alistair sheepishly backed up too, grumbling.

“I was just trying to help…” he said moodily, and she patted his arm with a small smile. 

“No! I am perfectly fine walking along behind it!” Eideann and Alistair both turned to see Leliana trying to reason to Shayle. They stood by the last wagon, a large reinforced one carrying several trunks of the Arl’s belongings and treasure. Leliana gave a despairing look.

“But you will be traveling with me,” she insisted. “We will be in the cart together.”

“I will break the cart, or break the Sister, if the Sister thinks I am going to be getting in that thing.” 

“You can’t walk, Shayle. We’ll be riding hard. You can’t keep up.”

“Oh can’t I?” Eideann could not help it. She laughed. But her laughter faded when she caught sight of the Arlessa standing up on the hill, her expression grim, watching them with eyes of cold hate. She sighed.

“Did I do right?” she asked, and Alistair glanced to her.

“Yes,” he told her. His voice did not waver, and she was grateful for that. “Maker’s breath, where is that dwarf.”

“He is still inside,” Sten said, lumbering past and taking hold of his own horse’s reins with a somber look. Asala, his sword, was strapped to his back over his Qunari armor. Horsemaster Dennet was so surprised, he got out of the way quickly without another word, and Sten ignored him like it was to be expected. “He things he can insult the woman into his bed. He can try.” He led his horse from the stable and Eideann reached for her own, patting its nose gently and then turning, reins in hand. Alistair followed her, his expression bemused. Eideann tied her pack to the saddle, then checked everything else was in order, and finally looked down to where the Shield of Highever hung alongside her family sword and Maric’s dragonbone blade.

“You really should carry this,” she told Alistair, but he shook his head.

“I want Duncan’s,” he said simply, and so she let it fall. She checked all the straps a final time, then swung herself up onto the horse’s back and directed it at a trot towards the front of the wagon line gathering in the square. Leliana appeared to have finally coaxed Shayle into the last wagon, and it groaned but took the weight.

“Are you ready for this?” Alistair asked, coming alongside her. Eideann watched as Oghren finally emerged from the Gull and Lantern, and then she looked to him with honest, sincere eyes.

“No,” she told him. “But it doesn’t matter. This has been a long time coming.” And it had. She knew already what lay in Denerim: the world she had trained for, the world she had been born to, the challenge of facing at last the men who had ruined her life and the lives of so many others. She had traversed the roads of Ferelden for so long, it was almost a relief to be done with it at last. She had raised her army, and now she rode towards a different challenge. 

Somewhere in the capital, Loghain was waging a Civil War. Somewhere in the capital, Arl Rendon Howe had established himself as a powerful, cruel man. Somewhere in the Capital, she would find her vengeance, and then she would settle this once and for all.

“I’m nervous,” Alistair said beside her suddenly, staring straight ahead. “I’m a Grey Warden. I don’t get involved in politics.” 

Eideann smiled ever so slightly, remembering Duncan and the flight from Highever, and she shook her head, setting her eyes on the horizon.

“The Wardens are always political,” she said words more true now than ever before. “Whether you like it or not. We don’t have a choice.” And she spurred her horse forward, east to Denerim and destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely readers, all of you, and thank you those who show you're enjoying the story by leaving kudos and comments. I like all comments, even criticism, so don't hesitate to talk to me if you think I can improve! :) All input is appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Morrigan have a confrontation over Eideann; Eideann finally finds out what Leliana has been working on for months; Alistair and Eideann explain to Arl Eamon their concerns about the horde and Loghain; Sera overhears a conversation between a Red Jenny and an Antivan Crow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: some violence, sex
> 
> Comments always welcome :)
> 
> Sorry I took so long to post this next chapter. I had to do a lot of lore research again to get an idea to make sense for the story. If you're interested in the details, it's explained better below. Otherwise, if you don't care, feel free to ignore the notes at the bottom of this chapter. :) ~HigheverRains

Travelling with the Redcliffe guard and the Arl himself made practicing magic difficult, and that was before the ordeal with the Arl’s son had been factored in. She desperately wanted to escape the wagon train, to turn into a fennec and dash off into the woods, but there was no way to do so, and she could not simply abandon Eideann on her quest now. 

So instead she busied herself with her mother’s grimoire, confident no one else could read the words. If anyone asked, she said twas merely an ancient Chasind language and left them wondering. But it wasn’t. It was far older that Alamarri. 

Her hand brushed the embossed tree on the cover and she opened the pages to where she had last left off: an intriguing passage about sylvans and ancient nature magics. 

Before her, the small force was busy setting up pavilion tents, the sort that the King’s forces had used at Ostagar, not the small ones they had used since. This apparently took some effort, because they were travelling slowly to accommodate the need. But she supposed it was foolish of her to insist they all sleep on the ground as normal. Eideann Cousland might be more than willing to strip down to her tunic and sprawl out on the grass before a single campfire, but the Arl was an entirely different matter. He needed warm furs against the night chill, still weak from his illness, and a cot to sleep on.

Morrigan carefully turned the page of her book and then looked up as a shadow fell across her. It was Alistair, of all people, standing over her with his arms cross and watching her with a dark look.

“Have you left her for me then, or are you hoping I cast a few spells or turn into a spider and bring the other Templars down upon me?” she asked simply, returning to her book.

“You’re up to something.”

“Indeed.” Such a suspicious man, really. She sighed, shaking her head. “I cannot imagine what would make you say such a thing.”

“You think I don’t know,” he pressed, “but I know what your mother was and I know what you are: deceitful liars.” Morrigan smirked.

“I don’t even know what my mother is, of if indeed Flemeth was even truly my mother,” she replied, but closed her book. “But do tell me, since you have bothered to think on something for once. What is you think I am…up to?” Alistair shifted, but could not say anything, so she sighed.

“Something,” he insisted. “You’ve been quiet for days, keeping to yourself, just reading that grimoire.” He glared. “If you do anything to hurt Eideann – “ Morrigan felt a flash of anger, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Hurt her? Is there a reason you believe I am going to do so?” He stared at her a moment, gaze dark, then gritted his teeth.

“I know Eideann sees something in you, and that makes her unwary. I am watching you.” 

“Really, Alistair, you are a fool.” She pushed herself up, brushing off her skirt and tucking the book under her arm. “I would be concerned about yourself, if I were you. You are travelling in the company of assassins who have already tried to kill you, and a man vying to put you on the throne. Regardless, your Eideann Cousland is a colder woman than you appear to think. She knows when survival must come first above all else. Or do you really think _you_ could have led such a group so far?” He glared at her, and she considered him with hooded eyes, recognizing his discomfort. How day he attack her, here in front of all these people. “There is one thing I do not understand, Alistair.”

“Just the one thing?” he shot back, annoyed. Good, let him. She was annoyed enough with him.

 _Soon it will all be done with, one way or another._ That was not usually something she wanted so badly.

“About you, perhaps,” she informed him curtly. “Why the deception over your parentage?” 

“Eideann told you.” His voice was flat. He glared. “I’d figure you’d be the sort who knows all about deception.”

“I do,” Morrigan informed him brusquely. “And what use the deception might have had ended when King Cailin perished, did it not?” Alistair looked away.

“Maybe. I guess I was sort of hoping that would go away.” She stared at him, and then crossed her arms, book secure against her chest.

“The truth does not ‘go away’,” she told him, and he shot her another glare. 

“I didn’t say it was a good plan.” She sighed, then bent to gather her things since it was clear the spot she had chosen was not likely to stay solitary for long if this interaction was much to go by. 

“I do not recall you ever having a good plan. I imagine if she makes you King, Ferelden will certainly experience some difficult years to come.” She turned away, but he called after her.

“She won’t do that. She can’t!” There was a note of panic in his voice and Morrigan sighed, looking back.

“Twould certainly be a poor plan for her, all said and done.” Then she left him with the thought and meandered instead to the wagons where Eideann was helping unload another tent. At her approach, the woman looked up, blue eyes concerned.

“What is it?” she asked, worried, and Morrigan sniffed.

“That…fool prince of yours,” she said simply. “If he will not leave me alone, I shall set him on fire.” Eideann smiled slightly, which sent a flash of irritation through Morrigan because she had not been exaggerating. And then it went away as the Teyrna hopped down from the wagon and shoved a box along the grass. 

“Come on,” the woman said simply. “I want to take a look at the road ahead.” 

“Scouting?” Morrigan asked incredulously. “’Tis moments like this I dearly wish I had stayed in the Wilds.” But she slipped her book into her pack and followed the Grey Warden up the nearest rise, some distance from the camp. When they were just out of sight, Eideann stopped them.

“There,” she said simply. “Cast a spell. Change into a mouse. Anything. Get it out of your system, because it’s obvious it’s bothering you and I can’t put up with it for another week.” Morrigan gave her a dark glare.

“’Tis not a need,” she insisted. “I am fully capable of going without using my magic when necessary.” Eideann fixed her with a flat look.

“Actually, I have a practical reason as well,” she said. “To the northeast is the Bannorn, and we know already that the Blight has done its damage this far south. I want to know how far it looks to have spread.” Morrigan shook her head, then glared.

“I am not here for your amusement,” she insisted, and Eideann smiled.

“No? Because with your charming manner I couldn’t tell,” she shot back. “Please, Morrigan. It will give you the chance to get out of this ridiculous camp for a while, have some space to yourself. And the information is something I will need.” The Witch stared a moment, then finally sighed, removing her pack and passing it to Eideann with resignation.

“Care for my things, then, if you please. I shall return when I have news.” There was a cloud of black, and she morphed into the raven form and spiraled into the sky.

Oh to feel the wind again, to look down on everything! It was wonderful. She saw Eideann shoulder her pack and turn away, and then set her new course, wheeling up through the updrafts and away into the north. 

***

Eideann felt the soft breeze rippling through the pavilion fabric and causing the campfires to flicker. With Morrigan finally settled with a task, the tension she had been sensing since leaving Redcliffe eased somewhat. Morrigan had never done well under observation, and the last thing they needed was to startle all the Redcliffe contingent with another apostate in their midst. Morrigan was also adamantly against company.

Eideann had stored her pack in the tent Eamon had provided. It was too big, far too big, unnecessarily so. She could have fit most of her room at Highever inside if she had tried. The bed was still set on the ground, a mattress of down that rolled up small when the tent was packed up, graced with furs and thick wool blankets against the cold spring nights. And there was a lantern. In her tent. Ridiculous, really, when all was said and done.

They were still several weeks from the capital at the pace they were travelling. She wondered how well her armies were handling their occupation of Soldier’s Peak. She wondered also what she was going to do with herself once all this was done. Maker, if she survived, she was going to feel like she had all the time in the world.

She could hear the soft sound of Leliana strumming her lute again out in the distance near the fires. The tent flap was open, so the wind could get inside and ruffle the canvas. It was dyed red and silver for Redcliffe, and the firelight caught on the panels in strange ways. The lantern, caught by the breeze, swayed from the tent-pole where it was strung, and she eyed it up a little nervously before moving to examine her things. 

Her pack was almost empty now, but she had brought in all the miscellaneous gear she had stashed on her saddle, because Eamon had been kind enough to provide her with a trunk. She finally had the time to fill it, so she went to work. The satchel of rose petals went in, and the Warden treaties for safe-keeping. King Cailin’s letters from Ostagar were set within too. The Cousland Blade, her black borrowed gown, her Warden cloak, a small box she had found in the Circle but had not been able to open, the apocryphal book by Sister Mary from the Temple, and the Shield of Highever eventually found space within. And atop it all, Maric’s sword. She had also brought in a large package that Zevran had brought to her the first night. It contained what they had collected at Ostagar of King Cailin’s golden plate mail. She put that within for safekeeping. It belonged in Denerim, one way or another.

After all of that, and finally her pack as well, the trunk still felt empty. Half it was not even her own gear. She considered it warily, then carefully closed it shut and fastened it with a heavy key she had strung on the chain of the Warden Pendant. 

Near the tentpole stood an armor rack for her use, and she carefully examined it, because it had been a very long time since she had even used one. She was just looking over when she realized what she was missing. 

And immediately the loss hit her. She turned back to the trunk, unfastened it, and went through it all again. But it was not there. It was not in her pack, nor in any of the corners of the trunk where her own things were stored. She gave a curse, then sat back, staring at the open trunk with a feeling of loss.

 _It was never really yours anyway,_ she thought bitterly, but knew that she had paid for it, that it was hers. 

“What has you looking so down?” came the soft voice of the Chantry Sister, finally finished with her singing for the night. Leliana stood in the doorway, pack and lute on her shoulder as she had yet to find the tent she was sharing with Wynne. Eideann looked to her, then shook her head.

“My dress. The one I bought the day we met Levi Dryden from that merchant trying to sell his wife’s things? I can’t find it. I didn’t leave it at the Peak, I’m sure…” Her brows knitted, and she scowled. “I put it in my pack, I am certain of it, but I’ve been through everything, and it’s not there. Not anymore.” 

“Ah.” She looked up to see Leliana watching her with a slight smile. “That is because it isn’t there.” She blinked, her eyes narrowed, and pushed herself up, turning to the bard. Leliana carefully opened her pack. It always looked full, but Eideann knew she did not carry very much. She had honestly never put much thought into what was taking the space. 

And now it made sense. 

Leliana pulled the gown from her bag, and it was a far cry different from the plain Highever weave gown made for a commoner. Leliana had worked some sort of magic upon it. She unfolded it sheepishly, and held it out, and Eideann caught her breath.

“All that time you were sewing…” she finally said, staring. And then she reached to touch the fabric. 

It was still the thick and soft Highever wool melton, warm like velvet and soft like wool. That much was no change, and she would not wish it to be. But Leliana had slashed the sleeves and opened it out, layering it with a chemise of soft gray silk. The red fabric was not simply left alone either. She had hand-embroidered the laurel leaves of the Couslands in scrollwork along the hems, sleeve cuffs, and bodice where it laced with soft velvet cord. Eideann took one look at it and wanted to cry. She looked up at the bard, who was watching her nervously, and then struggled for words.

“Leliana…it’s…it’s beautiful,” she breathed. 

“I think it is tailored properly to fit you now too, if you will try?” Eideann looked at it a moment, then nodded, taking it from the bard who moved to close the tent flap while Eideann examined the work. 

_This is a gown fit for a Teryna._

Leliana held the dress while Eideann carefully removed her armor and settled it on the armor rack. Then she slipped out of the tunic and leggings, until she was bare. Leliana’s hands brushed over the grey silk before helping her climb into it. It settled about her, a perfect fit, and the bard smiled. Then she wrapped the red gown over the silk and Eideann’s fingers worked the laces. Her hands were shaking. 

When it was tied and she stood under Leliana’s gaze she hesitated, then carefully ran a hand over her hair.

“What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” the bard said. “If only we could get you some nice shoes. Once can’t mingle with nobility with bad shoes, you see.” Eideann glanced at her.

“I’ve only ever had one nice pair of shoes. A pair of velvet slippers my mother brought me from Orlais when they went on a diplomatic visit for King Maric before he died.” Leliana smiled wide.

“Orlais is very fashionable. Almost ridiculously so. Ahh…but the shoes. Living with those ridiculous trends was worth it for the shoes!” Eideann gave a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“Were they ridiculous shoes?” she asked. Leliana smiled, brushing down her gown and shifting it about her to get a better look again.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “About ten years ago all the ladies went mad for shoes with soles as large and heavy as bricks. But it isn’t always that silly. When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels and embellishments in the front…a ribbon perhaps, or embroidery. In soft colors, of course. It was spring.” She smiled a little wistfully, and Eideann turned slightly to consider the fall of her gown. “The shoes made in Orlais were exquisite. Not at all like these clunky fur-lined leather boots you have in Ferelden. Ugh. Just look at them!” She shook her head and Eideann grinned.

“Well at least they keep the cold out,” she replied, because she was wearing some and they did keep the cold out and she was not planning on trading that in any time soon.

“They’re sturdy shoes,” Leliana conceded, “but sometimes a girl just wants to have pretty feet.” She smiled. “Perhaps when we get to Denerim we could go shopping!” Eideann gave her a look, and she sighed. “Come now, it can’t be all business.” Eideann chuckled again and then looked down at her dress, wishing she had a mirror. 

But she did. Morrigan’s bag lay on the other side of the room. So she crossed to it, careful of her skirts, and dug out the golden mirror carved with halla. She gave it to Leliana to hold, and the bard stepped back until she could see the whole thing, and her breath caught a little. She looked aflame with scarlet and silver, the Highever laurels a shifting pattern that seemed like flame as well the way it was stitched.

“Oh Leliana, when did you find the time?”

“Wynne helped a little,” the bard said. “But I have been working on it for months.” Her look was a little coy. “The Flame of Highever needs a dress that makes people pay attention, I think.” 

“It’s beautiful…” Eideann said again. She did not have any other words.

“Maker…” she looked about to see Alistair in the doorway, having pushed back the tent flap a little. He stared at her with eyes of gold, and Leliana looked wryly between them before carefully passing the mirror back to Eideann. Eideann’s fingers closed about it and she held it carefully, close to her chest as she considered Alistair in her doorway. Leliana, grinning, murmured a soft excuse and brushed through the tent flap past Alistair. He swallowed.

“I…Eideann, you look…Maker…” 

“Is it too much?” she asked him quietly, suddenly nervous he felt a bit upstaged.

“Maker, no!” he said hurriedly, stepping in and letting the tent flap fall again. “I…I don’t know what to say. It’s like you’re a dream. A good one, not one of those nasty ones that happened in the Fade or that mages have to deal with.” He stepped around her, keeping his distance, careful, and she followed him with her eyes, still holding the golden mirror. When he finally paused before her, his gaze was full of…something…

Desire. 

He wet his lips and looked towards the tent flap.

“I…err…” he cleared his throat, sounding a little hoarse, as he had in the river after kissing her the very first time. “I was just going to tell you I was in the next tent along…” She raised an eyebrow at him and he turned his face away, blushing a little. “Sorry, that was too forward, wasn’t it?” She lowered her eyes a little, shy suddenly, and carefully turned to wrap the mirror back in its cloth and return it to Morrigan’s pack with care. Then she gathered her new skirts and crossed to him, reaching up to touch his face with her hand and then gently pull him into a kiss.

“No,” she told him quietly.

He was careful with the gown, like he did not know what to do with it. To be fair, he had never helped any woman out a gown before to her knowledge. The only times he had been with her, they’d been wearing armor that literally buckled on, and beneath that tunics. A gown seemed an insurmountable challenge. 

She helped him, undoing the laces, and Leliana’s lute music began again out by the fire.

“Tie down the door,” she told him softly, her voice thick with want, and he did as she said, crossing to tie it closed against the wind. Beside the door, Angus gave a low ruff and then settled his head on his paws, watching her with one brow raised like he was judging them for being so slow. Eideann undid the last of the laces of the red embroidered gown and carefully hung that on the arm of the armor rack. She would find a better place for it in the morning. The silk chemise she folded carefully and set atop the trunk she had been given by the Arl. 

Alistair’s hands met her skin, skirting softly up her sides, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, holding her close against him. His own armor was in his tent, so at least there was no cold metal on her back, but the rough quilted silk of his Warden tabard brushed on her flesh, causing her to shiver a little. 

“Stay with me,” she called, and he smiled into her neck, kissing it softly before nodded into her shoulder.

“A beautiful lady such as yourself? How could I say no?” he murmured. And then he pulled back a little, and doused the lantern, plunging them into the semi-darkness with the campfires crackling beyond the tent. His mouth found hers and she pulled his tunic from his shoulders, lips trailing down his neck. His arms came about her holding her close and she pulled him down onto the bedding where he worked to pull off the rest of his clothes. She bundled herself inside the furs, and finally he joined her, gathering her in his arms, where she gave a soft laugh.

“I missed you,” she murmured. How long had it been? Weeks since Haven. “We don’t do this often enough.” He grinned against her mouth, then pulled back to tangle his fingers in her short hair and nuzzle her shoulder. 

“No,” he agreed softly. “You just insist on being practical all the damn time.” She smiled and then her breath caught as his hands skimmed over her body. And then she pulled him into a deeper kiss.

“Alistair,” she breathed, and he kissed her in reply. She could hear his breathing soft and rough against her ear and wrapped herself about him, letting her hands speak for her.

He was hers. All hers. She forgot about all the rest. The Landsmeet didn’t matter. Their fathers didn’t matter. The Blight didn’t matter. Just this. 

“I love you,” she breathed and made a soft noise, like a cat’s purr. And then he tumbled her over and kissed her hard and fast and buried himself within her so they both had to break the kiss together to moan softly at the feeling of being one again.

For a while they stayed, just like that, she stroking her fingers through his hair, he tracing patterns on her skin. 

“Whatever happens, this is real,” he told her after a moment. “This, us. Eideann, I wouldn’t want this any other way.” She pulled his mouth to hers again and began to move for them, and he broke the kiss to gasp for breath, then give a soft chuckle. “Minx,” he said breathlessly. “I am trying to talk about feelings.” 

“I don’t talk about feelings,” she told him with a smile and moved again, and he gave in, gathering her into his arms and kissing her until they lay panting and satiated together, twisted in blankets and furs. His fingers were left to run through her hair gently as he held her close against him in silence, chest rising and falling with each breath he took. She focused on that, keeping herself confined to that one small space, and smiled to herself a little. 

Somehow, wrapped together, they ended up falling asleep. But in the morning it was like waking up in a real bed, and she savored it awhile longer before finally stirring. There were sounds of movement in the camp, and Alistair was snuggled up into her back, his breathing slow, tickling her neck.

She nudged him after a moment’s regret, and he too stirred. And when his eyes flickered open to see her in the early morning light, he smiled his beautiful smile and she couldn’t help it. She bent and kissed him until they were both breathless again and she had to convince herself to stop there before it went too far. 

“They’re packing up,” she said quietly, “and your armor is in your tent.” 

“That may need to change,” he muttered, sitting up slowly so the furs and blankets bundled about his waist. He stretched and she gathered the blankets about her a moment longer, reveling in the warmth, before forcing herself to rise and dress. She went for the Warden uniform, as they were still on the road, but for a moment she was very tempted to don her new gown. 

_Save it for when it will make the most impact,_ she thought to herself and fastened the tunic about her waist. _You’ll need every advantage you can get._ Alistair wrapped her in a large hug from behind and kissed the side of her forehead before sighing. 

“I shall see you by the horses, love,” he told her with a sigh, and then tied his own tunic closed and ran a hand through his mussed hair before bending to let himself out of her tent. 

Eideann carefully gathered up her new gown and rearranged the contents of her trunk to insure it would not be damaged by all the swords and armor lying about within. And then, for good measure, she put Morrigan’s pack inside too. That done, she locked it with her key and then moved to buckle on her armor with the efficiency of too many months on the road doing just such a thing. Her swords were like extensions of her own arms by now, so as she fastened them at her back, she looked to Angus, who was now sleeping at the end of the bed atop the furs, leg twitching in some sort of dream. She wondered if he had the same sorts of dreams as she had. He was a Grey Warden too, after all. 

A few of Eamon’s guards helped her pack up the tent, and she assisted as best she could carrying and loading her trunk on one of the wagons. Shayle, as expressionless as ever, just made a disgusted sound as she was made to climb back into the wagon. One of these days, the golem had threatened, it would be broken out of her sheer impatience.

“Morning,” Eideann said brightly, and the golem just grunted.

“I do not sleep. I do not care if it is morning,” was the reply. Leliana swung herself up into a seat atop the trunks and gave Eideann a knowing smirk before looking away and leaving it alone. 

They were riding not long later, cutting eastward along the West Road. It was the one that went straight through Lothering, which had fallen to the darkspawn months ago. Eideann was worried. After so long in Orzammar deep beneath the earth, she had seen the corruption of the darkspawn swallow entire towns. How far into the Bannorn had the corruption spread now? She hoped Morrigan met up with them again soon with more news. 

She would have preferred to stay back with her companions, but Shayle, Oghren, and Leliana were in the wagons, and the others were riding at various points along the line, so it was impossible. Added to that the fact that they would be entering Blightlands soon, and she ended up at the front instead, riding beside Alistair and Arl Eamon. 

“Lothering fell some time ago,” she explained as they rode, her look somber. “We managed to evacuate as many as we could before it was hit, but the darkspawn came up fast on our heels after Ostagar, and there was little we could do with just the two of us. After they reached Lothering, the darkspawn spread into parts of the Brecilian Forest and the rest of the Korcari Wilds. If they had carried straight north, they would have cut a swathe through the Bannorn before we could move against them. As it is, the Archdemon has returned to the Deep Roads for the time being and is travelling the old ways. When it surfaces again, we must be ready to fight it.” Alistair nodded, grim-faced.

“I wish we could have gleaned more information from Ostagar when we returned there, but there was no time. We know from the Dead Trenches that the Archdemon was still in the general area of Ostagar as of about two months ago.” But his voice betrayed his unease. “If we can cover that distance so quickly, though…”

“We crippled their forges at Bownammar,” Eideann reminded him.

“Their forges?” Eamon asked, alarmed. “The darkspawn have their own forges?”

“Something of the sort. Let it be enough that we were able to inflict heavy losses to them there. For the moment, the horde cannot grow larger in Bownammar. That was a known breeding ground to the dwarves, so we can be relatively certain the horde is at least not growing as we speak, though whether other areas remain…that remains to be seen.” She knew better than to think there were no other Broodmothers somewhere in the Deep Roads. Laryn had not bred an army alone. 

“So the Archdemon can reach anywhere the Deep Roads reach?” Arl Eamon said, looking concerned. Eideann exchanged a glance with Alistair.

“They are not entirely in one piece,” Alistair finally said. “Many have suffered damage, and darkspawn always live below the surface, even when there is no Blight. There are also parts of the Deep Roads where an Archdemon simply does not fit. So I believe we have some time. Enough, at least, to do something to call Ferelden’s armies to war.” 

“I hope it is as simple as you believe,” Eamon said with a heavy sigh, “but I doubt it will be easy. Loghain has much to lose in this fight to come, and he no doubt believes himself to be in the right.”

“He does not see the Blight as a threat,” Eideann said. “He sees Orlais as a threat, as he always has. And he is willing to defend anyone from that threat, no matter the cost. That is the problem of course. Orlais may be a threat, but it is not one we can hope to ward away when the Archdemon is already on our doorstep.” She sighed, fixing Arl Eamon with a look. “Cailin was ready to set aside Anora and wed Empress Celene. The uproar that would have caused…”

“Maker’s breath,” Arl Eamon sighed. “I can see why he would, of course, but…such a thing could cause riots in the streets. There are many who have not seen the devastation of the Blight who will no doubt agree with Loghain that Orlais remains a threat.”

“There will be nothing to worry about if the Blight is not stopped first,” Eideann replied. And then she grimaced. “And when the Blight is done, should we still have Chevaliers on the doorstep, I’ll raise the force to defend our borders as well. We paid too much in blood for our freedom from the Empire. I see his worries, but I do not condone what he has done. I cannot.” Arl Eamon gave her a considering look, then shook his head.

“One step at a time,” he cautioned her. Alistair gave her a quiet look, eyes cool and determined, and Eideann nodded.

“Of course. But if I only thought one step ahead, my Lord, I imagine all of us would be dead.” She looked ahead then, along the stone Imperial Highway, and grimaced. “Wait a day or two and you shall see what threat we are facing to our lands, and then, your grace, I shall listen to your advice to think one step at a time. For now, I cannot afford to.” 

“Is she always like this?” Arl Eamon asked Alistair who sighed and gave a nod, saying nothing more. The Arl fell silent then, thinking, and Eideann decided it was best if she stopped showing exactly what she was capable of, lest he start expecting it. After all, many did think her the second daughter, hotheaded and obsessed with swordplay and tourneys, capable of driving away all suitors. She wanted that ruse. It was a shield. If she truly meant to play the game in Denerim, she would have to begin now. 

“I will listen to any advice you have, of course, your grace,” she said quietly. “You are far more knowledgeable in such things than I.” And he gave her an odd look before a slow nod and turned his eyes to the road.

They hit Lothering two days later, and when they did the entire force fell silent at the sight. Blackened earth and dead, gnarled growth had blasted away all signs of life. And it had spread, north of the road, as far as the eye could see. It was then that Morrigan finally returned, winging her way back to them under the cover of night. Eideann met her at the northern end of camp, where the soil was dead and dry, looking more like ash than earth. Morrigan’s eyes were cold and her look grim as she fixed Eideann with a look.

“What news?” Eideann asked quietly, returning the Witch’s things to her. Morrigan just took her bag and shook her head.

“It’s spread almost as far as the Hafter River,” she replied quietly. “They may see it as far away as Denerim soon. The Bannorn is drowning in the Blight.”

***

Adwen had been pretending to be a servant again. He did that sometimes, and she could tell, because he put on the same green tunic and tucked a cleaning cloth into his belt to make himself look busier. But he had been home a long time, even though the halls were dark, because his voice carried to her through the front hall. She paused, slowly slipping the door shut to avoid making noise, and watched him pacing the floor, biting the nails of one hand. 

His company had been there for weeks now, living in the old wing of the house that had been covered with white cloth when that lying Lady Emmald had finally died. Adwen had told her the house was hers, but she didn’t want it. She never had. What good was a house when it had been _her_ house. She sniffed, scowling, as Adwen finally stopped pacing, turning to his guests.

It was the tall human, with the black hair and the smile that made her wary. He was there sometimes when Adwen was out. When she realized that, she started avoiding the house. Those men were nothing but trouble.

“You’ve got a place to hide and a man on the inside. You’ll know when I know. Now what about our bargain?” Adwen was saying. She didn’t know anything about a stupid bargain. Those men were in her house and not leaving.

They were ravens or something, Adwen had told her. She was not really listening. It didn’t matter. Birds only made loud noises, ate dead people, and shit on everything.

“Your man was placed among Zevran’s agents,” the human’s voice, thick with all the pompousity of Tevinter. “We can’t move on that lead until I know more about where Zevran is.” 

“It isn’t my fault your man turned and ran,” Adwen snapped back. “I want what we agreed to. There will be consequences if you don’t hold up your end.” Sometimes he was cold. She didn’t like when he was cold.

She wanted to go back outside, but it was dark, and it wasn’t safe. She had tried a few nights back to hide in one of the alleys, but the guards had thought she was fleeing the Alienage, and that was worse. There were more Tevinters there, mean ones, with magic. They were stealing people. She had only managed to get away from the guards by spitting at one and taking a shortcut through the Chantry yard and up through the market square to outrun them. 

She crept forward across the floorboards, leggings a riot of color. She didn’t like Tevinters.

Or mages.

Adwen’s sister had been a mage. She was dead.

“You find our man and we’ll find your bloody box. Simple,” the bird was saying. She slipped up the steps towards the second floor to avoid them, wrinkling her nose. It was very simple. It was better not to make deals with bad people. Bad people deserved bad things to happen to them.

Adwen’s footsteps sounded on the floorboards behind her and he began to climb the steps. She ducked into her old room to avoid him and looked about the place with a sigh. It was over-dressed in frills and too-nice furniture. Lady Emmald had thought she would like it. Stupid old lying bat.

She was angry. She kicked at her chair. 

Adwen stopped in her doorway. 

“Sera…” he said in the doorway. She spun about angrily.

“What?!” she shot back. “Those people are still here. You told me they’d go home.”

“They will. Soon,” he replied. He was not a kind man, not really. But he had found her when she was crouched in an alleyway, breathless and angry and crying, when she had realized stupid Lady Emmald had been lying all that time. She didn’t remember much from before, a few things…an Alienage?

Why would anyone choose to live in an Alienage, trapped in walls, while people called you names and you pretended not to hear them? Adwen was the same. He did not like the Alienage either. First he had brought her to live in a run-down shack in a back-alley on the south side of the River Drakon. And after Lady Emmald had died and she had been told the house was hers, he had taken the papers from her and told her they would live there instead. She didn’t like it. She preferred the shack. At least the shack was quiet and it wasn’t filled with vultures, or whatever they called themselves. 

There were three of them: an old man called Master Ig-something who spoke funny, his friend Cesar who sold poison and trap stuff, and the black-haired man who was Tali’s son, whoever Tali was. Sera made it a point to stay as far away from them as possible. Dangerous people were dangerous. 

She was hungry. 

“You told me you’d teach me to shoot something tomorrow,” she told Adwen, who shook his head.

“I’m busy,” he said flatly. “Maybe the day after. You’re on your own tomorrow.” She glared at him.

“You made a promise! You’re supposed to keep promises! You’re a liar!” 

“And so are you. I told you not to go through my things, but you did.” His eyes were cold. “I can put you right back on the streets again if you push me, Sera.” 

“I just wanted to know who Neria was.” He froze, staring, and for a moment she felt a wash of fear because he only froze when he was very angry. She had only seem him very angry once, before he had murdered a knight in the backstreets for hurting a boy. She had been angry too. She had helped.

But now he was angry with her.

“It’s none of your business,” he said simply, eyes cold.

“What did those men promise to find? Why are they here?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Leave it alone.” 

“Neria was a mage. She’s dead.” He turned away.

“Drop it, Sera,” he shot back angrily, and stalked off. She glared after him, then sank back onto her bed and crossed her legs. It _did_ matter. She was his sister. And the letter had said she was dead. Something about demons, and Templars. 

Adwen didn’t like Templars either.

Templars had taken her away, like they did other people. She didn’t think that was good, but magic was scary. 

When she still lived with Lady Emmald, the woman had made her visit the Alienage with her once a week to take her pride-cookies to the orphanage. It was a stupid place, full of annoying children and people who thought they were better than everyone else making pity-faces and pretending to be good. 

When the army marched southward to fight monsters, and the Arl’s son kidnapped some women, there was a riot, and the new Arl had sent soldier’s in to beat people up, make them scared. They didn’t do anything wrong, but he wanted them to hurt and be afraid. 

His men had broken into the orphanage, and scared one boy there so much, demons appeared. Everyone was dead, all those children eating pride cookies. All but her. Because a little person was scared. 

She scowled and then kicked her shoe at the wall. It hit with a thud, and the other followed, and then she glared at the wallpaper. 

The Templars had killed a lot more people after that trying to make sure the Alienage wasn’t hiding more mages. They dragged some of them away, and others they killed. Then they sealed off the Alienage, except for Tevinter mages. Sera didn’t know how they were better. All mages were bad to her. Every single one was dangerous. 

Probably Neria too. Neria had been eaten by a demon. Or something. The letter had said.

She hadn’t meant to read it, but she had found it. 

_We are sorry to inform you that your sister, Neria Surana, became an abomination and was killed. Her personal items have been confiscated, to be returned when deemed safe._ The letter was several years old, signed by a Templar Knight-Commander somebody-thingy-impressive-name.

The Templars had never sent Adwen anything. He didn’t have anything else. She had found that in the pocket of his trousers when he was in the bath.

She was hungry. 

She sighed and led back on the bed. There wasn’t anything to eat. The bird people didn’t have anything. Adwen never bought food. She had to get it herself. He had taught her how to be clever about it, to steal it from carts and stuff in the market, but she wasn’t very good at it, and often almost got caught. 

He had also taught her a little about shooting a bow, because bows were easy to make and arrows easy to find. They would slip out the back of the blacksmiths in the market and steal from the barrels of goods he kept stacked in the alleyway. And then they would practice shooting. Adwen could hit the statues of Andraste on the Chantry gates from on the roof at the end of the street. Sera missed a lot.

But sometimes she didn’t. You missed until you don’t. 

She ignored her tummy, ignored the Templars, the Tevinters, and the mages, ignored the rumors of plague coming from the Alienage, and curled up on the lumpy bed in her old bedroom with a sigh. Fine, if he wouldn’t take her, she’d go herself. Tomorrow, she would find her own breakfast and spend all morning stealing from whats-her-face noble knickers in the market. And then she’d shoot some birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on Adwen, Neria, Sera, and the Antivan Crows:
> 
> I definitely took some liberties with these characters, but I tried to do in a context that makes sense to the story. They are all characters that already exist in the games, explained below. The timeline for this assumes Sera is between 10 and 12 for the story. She's definitely got the capacity to do things, but she is very much a child, and since the POV is hers, it comes across a little scattered. 
> 
> Adwen is the elven servant who hits the cook over the head with a bottle during the City Elf origins. He always seemed a little shifty to me, like he had been about some nefarious plan (I like to imagine he is the one keeping rat poison in the larder). That's why he is fine stepping up and hitting the cook, but doesn't stay to help the City Elf PC.
> 
> Neria Surana (elf mage potential Warden) actually has the least backstory of all PCs. The only conversation you get to have about your past is with an apprentice called Eadric, where one of the options is to say Neria comes from the Denerim Alienage. Because the game is set up in such a way that all potential PCs existed in the timeline while only the real PC becomes the Warden, it is safe to assume Neria did exist, is now dead, and came from somewhere and even potentially have family.
> 
> Sera was caught stealing by Lady Taraline Emmald and then taken in as her ward as the woman could not have children. They have a falling out shortly before Lady Emmald dies. Lady Emmald, however, left her entire estate to Sera in her will, who promptly abandoned the place. The estate was later claimed under the authority of Grey Warden treaties and its contents sold to fund the efforts against the Blight. Sera returned to the estate after the Blight and donated the thing to the Chantry for "orphans or some shit" before packing herself off to Val Royeaux. Sera is said to have met a man who was a Red Jenny after her fight with Lady Emmald.
> 
> In Origins, the Antivan Crows are really tied up with Red Jenny. The Warden can find a note about a painted box on one of Zevran's compatriots during his ambush. The box is later found in the Circle Tower in Irving's desk. Master Ignacio in the Trial of Crows questline rewards the Warden with gloves called Red Jenny Seekers, so it stands to reason the Crows were somehow searching for or interested in Red Jenny. 
> 
> The idea for this story then is this: Adwen, an active member of Red Jenny with a Circle Mage sister killed in her Harrowing, takes Sera under his wing. When Lady Emmald dies, he takes advantage of the fact she was left the estate to move into the place. Because he was a servant in the Arl of Denerim's estate, and Zevran has admitted in this story that he was hired to kill Arl Urien of Denerim, Adwen has probably had contact with the Antivan Crows, who definitely include Taliesen (who is from Tevinter in the lore), Master Ignacio, and Cesar the merchant, and probably Zevran too. This connection was likely made during the initial contract against Arl Urien. Zevran's contract against the Wardens came later, and in payment for his information from the first contract, Adwen tasked one of Zevran's crew to find and retrieve the painted box, under penalty of death. It's probably a personal endeavor given the threat in the note, and since it was in the Circle Tower, the painted box was probably Neria's. Of course, Zevran fails and goes missing. The other Crows now have to find him, and since Adwen had this entire estate and they needed somewhere to stay, they're at his estate (techically Sera's), where they can keep a watch on one another. Adwen, with a vast contact network across Denerim, can keep an ear out for any news of Zevran. Meanwhile he knows right where to find them should they fail to bring him his box.
> 
> This plays right into Sera's statement, made to Cassandra in Inquisition: "Here's what I learned in the alleys: "Ahh, mages! Ahh, templars! Ahh, Tevinters! Aaah, hungry!" When you're little, everything is "Ahh!"". Sera's character arc requires her to fear magic, hate nobility and people who lie, and really be against "bad people". She was definitely in Denerim during the Blight (she says so), and was "burying stuff [she] stole and playing with painted boxes", so was involved somewhat with the Red Jennies at the time. As a person, however, her character is very immature, and her morals black and white, as if they were developed quickly as a child and set in stone, and she does not want to move on. So...this lends itself to that story for her. We will cover a little more with Sera in the chapters to come, and then we'll catch up with her for Inquisition.
> 
> Thanks for letting me bend the story a little here.  
> ~HigheverRains


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera delivers some anticipated news; Eideann, Alistair, and Eamon come face to face with Loghain, Howe, and Ser Cauthrien; Taliesen learns where to find Zevran; Eideann and Alistair gather some information in the Gnawed Noble and start to form their plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)  
> (especially in regards to the Sera, Red Jenny, Antivan Crows, Isabela backstory going on)

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?” she snapped, and Adwen, hand on the back of her neck, pushed her down an alley with a shake of his head. She had been minding her own business, filching money from some woman who did laundry in the Market District. And then suddenly he had been there, pulling her away and swatting the back of her head.

“Because you were being a snot-brained little pickpocket,” he told her and hauled her further down the alley. He had his bow in his hand, and a quiver at his belt, like he’d been doing something he shouldn’t. Elves weren’t meant to have weapons in the city. His armor was smuggler’s gear, but he did not seem the type, and it was over his normal green tunic. His hair, a bright splash of orange, was tied back like always.

“She’s mean! And anyway, I needed the money.” 

“Ingrate,” he hissed. “You own an estate. You don’t need money.” He released her roughly, and she turned on him backing away a few steps. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Leave me alone! I didn’t want your help anyway!”

“And let you get caught by those Tevinters? You might be a brat but you don’t deserve that. No one does.” She gave him a dirty glare and he sighed, digging in his pocket and fishing out some money that he pressed into her dirty hands. “If you’re hungry, you only have to ask.”

“Why are you doing this?” 

“What?” he asked, bending to unstring his bow. She glared.

“Following me around and acting like you know anything about me?”

“Because you needed someone,” he said, looking up at her with eyes of clear green. “And I help people who need someone.” 

“I do not.” He gave her a flat look and she kicked at the dirt. “Is that why you want those men to find something for you? You’re helping someone.” He sighed, and stared at her a moment, and then finally set aside his bow and crouched down until he was looking up at her.

“When I was little, my mother worked in the palace for the King. She stole a box from the King’s desk, a small painted thing. She said it held secrets, the most important secrets in the world. Something worth dying for. When Neria was taken to the Circle, my mother gave her the box and told her to keep it safe. But something bad happened to Neria at the Circle. You read the note. They said they’d send me anything she had. They never did. But she had that box. And I want it back. I need those secrets. Happy?”

“So you’re not helping people who need someone? You’re helping yourself.” He sighed, rising.

“Everyone needs someone. How many people could be helped with the secrets of a King? I only help those who cannot help themselves, Sera.” He fixed her with a look. “And today, I need your help. Will you help me?” 

“What’s in it for me?” she demanded.

“Aside from my thanks?” He sighed, and then crossed his arms. “How about answers?” 

“To anything I ask you?” she said suspiciously.

“If I know it, or can find out, you can have answers to anything you ask me,” he nodded, so she sighed, and then gave her own nod.

“Fine. What do I have to do? Can we eat first?” He gave a soft laugh and nodded.

“Yes,” he told her. “We can eat first.” He led her out of the alley and into the grungier back markets where there were no nobles and only street vendors crying their wares. There he bought them two squashy pies which they ate while walking.

She did not know where they were going, but she could smell the ocean, so they were somewhere near the docks in the slummy backwaters that ran behind the Alienage warehouses. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, mouth full of pie.

“To talk to a friend,” he replied. “I have a message I need you to deliver for me. I can’t do it myself. People might recognize me. But you…you’re just a messenger girl for this. No one will pay you any mind.” He took her out onto the actual docks and then swung back around towards the north again. A short ways along he paused beside an unloaded cargo of stacked crates and dug about in his pockets a moment before pulling forth a letter. He looked to her a moment, then sighed and handed her the note. It was a little folded on one side, and battered like it had changed hands many times. 

“This is for a Rivaini woman called the Captain. Take it into that building across the way, and then hurry back to the Market District. I’ll meet you there after I return from work, and then you will have your answers. I promise.” She gave him a suspicious look, then nodded, and he turned away. When she looked back, he had vanished into the burly sailing crowd. 

So she held the note tight in her hands and drew a deep breath before ducking through the crowd and weaving across the pier. The building was strange, too pretty on the inside and run down on the outside. It smelled of sickly sweet something, and of bodies, and alcohol and incense. When she pushed in the door, the smell was just stronger, and a small bell rang above her head. Beyond through thin walls, she heard someone moan. 

There were people in the first room, which appeared to be an inn, except that the windows were all boarded up, and the place was lit with candles dyed red and gold. There were lots of ladies in pretty dresses, and lots of men with lying smiles. But they sidestepped her, acting like she was not there. 

Sera’s eyes skirted the room, which made her very nervous, and she caught sight of one woman with hair the color of chocolate. She had kind eyes, but they were ringed in dark makeup, so she looked a bit funny. Sera crossed to her and pulled on her sleeve. The woman glanced down to her, blinking, and then gave her a confused look.

“And who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sera shot back. “Looking for the Captain.” The woman smiled slightly, then pointed towards the back of the room where there were men drinking, laughing, and betting on cards. In the middle of them was a Rivaini woman with amber eyes that sparkled. Her brown hair was tucked under a blue cloth, and she wore so much jewelry she looked like she might fall over. In her hands she had a knife, its handle embossed bronze, and she was eyeing up the man across from her waiting for his bet. Sera stared a moment, and then she crossed the floor.

“Are you the Captain?” she called to the woman, and the group parted about her. Some of the people jeered, and the Rivaini woman looked up with a smirk.

“Bit young to be in here, aren’t you, kitten?” she said.

“Are you the Captain?”

“Depends who is asking,” the Rivaini replied, pinning her cards to the table with her knife and collecting her winnings. Sera watched, uncomfortable, and then held up the paper, putting it on the table.

“Someone said to give you that.” The woman stared a moment, then picked up the note and unfurled it. She skimmed it a moment, then looked at Sera, smile gone.

“Who sent you?” she said, firmer this time.

“I…someone just told me to give you it.” 

“Were they Orlesian?” 

“I don’t know anything about any Orlesians,” Sera said. “Someone gave me that and told me to give it to you, and I did. That’s all I know.” The Captain looked her over, then settled back in her chair, mulling over it a moment.

“Not who you were expecting?” one of the men said, watching the Rivaini woman.

“No," the Captain said, "but the information is good, and he signed it himself. We'll set sail with the week, so be ready to go.” Sera had no idea what she was talking about. She just took a step back. The Captain’s eyes fell on her again and she froze.

“Here, kitten, for your trouble,” the Captain said and tossed her a crown. Sera caught it, stared at it a moment, then closed her fist about it and turned away. And then she left that strange place as quickly as she could, ignoring the moaning noises and the sickly sweet perfume and the scent of alcohol on everyone’s breath.

***

The gates of Denerim were massive. As their caravan approached, Arl Eamon rode forward, and that earned them passage within. Eideann and Alistair were in full Warden armor, polished until the dark silverite shone. They rode on either side of Arl Eamon through the heavy bronze gazes. 

Gates were just gates. She’d seen hundreds of gates. And the gates of Denerim really had nothing on the gates of Bownammar. But they represented something: a world closed to her, and a transition. This was their final battleground against Loghain. Somewhere within those walls…it would be ending soon.

Arl Eamon’s retinue swept through the main streets. Eideann kept her horse at a soft trot across the cobbles, winding through the paths she had not wandered since she was fifteen and was presented at court by her mother. They had stayed in the holdings of Arl Leonas Bryland at the time, a friend of her father’s. They had grown up together in South Reach when Highever was in Orlesian hands and had been close since. 

They were not heading into the southern city this time, however. Arl Eamon’s estate was located off the Market District, where he had easy access to the commoner’s Denerim Chantry, the best merchants, and the local hangouts of the nobility who were trying to avoid spending time in the Palace District. 

They rode through the gates and past the market, and the portcullis of the estate slowly rose before them. People were watching, curious and worried. 

Within the estate, a stablehand took each of their mounts, and servants collected their gear. Eideann would have preferred to do the work herself, but failing that she ended up standing with Alistair and the other members of her party, waiting until the Arl was ready. He took them inside then, into his grand hall. 

It was a modest estate, as far as estates went, clearly not his primary residence. But it was well furnished, and Eideann felt immediately uncomfortable. She walked across the thick carpets, gazing on the family portraits of dead Guerrins gracing the walls, and immediately wanted to be out in fresh air again. 

Alistair’s face seemed to suggest he wanted nothing more than the same.

They were given accommodations, but Eideann did not want to take the chance to settle in. The entire idea of sleeping in a castle again had her nerves on edge. She stayed only as long as it took to deposit her trunk and see that her gown was properly hung. She opened the trunk to make sure all was well (she had given Morrigan her things back after her return so it was not as well padded now) and had almost by accident taken the Cousland Blade and the Shield of Highever from the trunk. She had held them both a moment before slipping the Shield of Highever onto her back. She left the Cousland Blade in the chest after considering it for a few moments. She had promised its next use would be against Arl Howe’s treachery, and she would keep that. But the Shield was protection, her coat of arms emblazoned on her shoulder. The fire of the Grey Wardens beat in her chest, but she saw with Cousland Blue and the laurels guarded her back. It put her mind a little at ease.

But only a little.

When she reemerged, she found Alistair standing with Arl Eamon, Zevran, and Leliana in the hall, arms crossed. Angus was at his feet. He had really won him over. The dog would not yet respond to the man’s whistles, but he had taken to leaving him Angus presents – usually something half-eaten or slobbery and entirely useless except by dog standards.

“Denerim is the heart and soul of Ferelden,” Arl Eamon was telling him quietly. “It was the city of King Calenhad, the birthplace of Andraste, as stubborn as a mabari and as good to have at your side. If we defeat Loghain here, the rest of the nation will follow us.” He caught sight of Eideann and waved for her to join them. Alistair glanced to her, then sighed.

“It won’t be easy,” he admitted. Eamon shook his head.

“No. But by calling the Landsmeet, I’ve struck the first blow. The advantage for the moment is ours. He will have little choice but to show himself, to oppose us directly. He will strike back at us. The only question that remains is how soon.” 

“Meaning we need to garner the support to defeat him before he can do so himself.”

“Our being here lends some credence to the cause, and we spread word on the journey east of Alistair and his claim to the throne. It raced ahead of us like fire, and the entire city will know by now of Maric’s second son.” Alistair made a face, and Eideann looked to him, then drew a breath.

“And that means it won’t be long before he does show himself.”

“Indeed,” Eamon told her with a nod. “It is my hope – “

There was the sound of the large door opening, and they all three looked up as the head maid swept in.

“Your grace,” she said with a low curtsy, “the Regent to see you.” Eamon looked up sharply, and Eideann felt a ripple of anger. Alistair’s eyes narrowed. 

“Send him in,” Eamon said, tugging at the cuff of his silk sleeve over his blue-gloved hands. “We shall see him here.” 

Loghain looked proud and angry as he swept across the hall, wearing shining steel plate and a black cloak emblazoned with the golden Mac Tir dragon. He had come unarmed, but his lackeys had not.

One of his knights stood at his side, a greatsword on her back, her black hair pulled tightly from her eyes which watched them with suspicion. 

On his other side was Rendon Howe, clad in leather over his silk doublet, an axe on his belt. 

It was an old rage she tasted first, tempered by the new until it burned as hot as stars in the night, as focused as the finest blade. That blade, she knew, then and there, would find Arl Howe’s heart. And then it would find Loghain’s. She forced herself not to move, not to react, but it took everything she had. 

_Oren. Oriana. Mother. Father. Nan. Rory. Dairren. Landra._

And the one name above all else she laid at the feet of Teyrn Loghain:

_Fergus._

“Loghain, this is…an honor that the Regent would find time to greet me personally,” Arl Eamon said darkly. There was no honor in his eyes, just the cold formality of insults. Loghain narrowed his eyes in return. 

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every Lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?” he asked back. His voice was as cold as she remembered, as full of a flickering anger, like a candle lit that would never die. His eyes, like ice, were cold. She focused on them. She could not look on Howe. Not and trust herself to keep still and calm.

“The Blight is why I am here,” Arl Eamon said simply. “With Cailin dead, Ferelden _must_ have a king to lead it against the darkspawn - ”

“Ferelden,” Loghain interrupted, “has a strong leader: it’s Queen. And I lead her armies.” Eideann sniffed, loud enough it caught his attention, and she met his eyes with dark ones of her own.

“ _If_ Anora rules,” she said sharply, “let her speak for _herself_.” Loghain’s eyes were points of ice boring into her. There was hatred in his eyes. And fear. He knew who she was, and despised her for it. She raised her chin.

He decided not to know her.

“And who is this?” he asked Arl Eamon. “Some new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played the nursemaid to.” 

“Well, you’re admitting the royal part, that’s a start,” Alistair said curtly, and it saved her the momentary struggle to lash out herself. Instead she settled for a cool stare, the sort her mother had been so good at. 

“I am Eideann Cousland, Teyrna of Highever, as you well know,” she told him. The anger under her words was there, woven like delicate lace into the pattern of her voice. The authority it gave her made her voice ring like a bell. She thought of Bryce and Eleanor. 

_I’ll make you proud._

“The Couslands are dead,” came the flat tones beside Loghain, and Eideann let her eyes at last slip to Rendon Howe. Oh he knew her as well, of course, and she knew it. The cruelty in his gaze in that moment was not the sort reserved for strangers. The cut was meant to be deep _because_ of who she was. She forced herself to internalize that, so she would not give him the satisfaction of a real response. He wanted to set her off-balance here, now. He would not. “The Teyrnir of Highever belongs to the Howes, and rightfully so.” Eideann took a step forward, and the man almost took a step back. Loghain’s knight gripped her swordhilt like she were ready to die for them. Eideann just fixed Rendon Howe with a look that froze fire.

“Enjoy your moment,” she said in a quiet voice, smiling a snake’s smile, a grimace of hate. “It will end soon enough.”

“You are either very bold or very stupid to threaten the Teyrn in front of witnesses,” the knight said in a wavering voice. 

“He knows which,” Eideann said, never looking away from Howe who glared back. The roiling hatred was curling in her gut, growing tighter and tighter.

Loghain stepped up and Eideann transferred her gaze to him, eyebrows raised in challenge. The man glared at her, then back at Arl Eamon. To acknowledge her meant to acknowledge her claim. That would undermine himself.

“There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon,” Loghain said, turning away and pacing. “Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden.” Arl Eamon crossed his arms.

“Illness?” he said coldly. “Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these…sycophants.”

“How long you’ve been gone from court, Eamon,” Loghain sneered, crossing back near Eideann who watched him with cool eyes. “Don’t you recognize Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine, and of course Teyrn of Highever.”

“And current Arl of Denerim, since Urien’s unfortunate fate at Ostagar,” Rendon Howe said in a tone thick with poison. “The Regent has been generous to those who prove loyal,” Arl Howe said, and Eideann’s eyes slipped to Loghain. He did not look back. 

“A Teyrnir is earned, not given or taken. No man can rule over more than one Arling. I’ll see you remember that before the end,” Eideann said sharply, and his gaze slipped to her again, with a smirk.

“Don’t interrupt, churl. You betters are talking,” the knight told her curtly, and Eideann smiled her snake’s smile at her next. 

“Enough, Cauthrien. This is not the time or place,” Loghain said, quieting her, and the knight’s eyes narrowed before she settled back a step. Loghain looked to Eamon again, expression unreadable. “I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened, our King is dead, our land is under siege! We _must_ be united now if we are to endure this crisis! Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed?!” His voice was rising in volume, anger settling in. “You divide our nation and weaken out efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne!” Eideann barked a laugh, one of bitter irony and hate.

“You’re the one who divided Ferelden,” she told him.

“I was not talking to you,” he snapped in return.

“You soon will be,” she said in reply. Eamon shook his head.

“I cannot forgive what you’ve done, Loghain,” the Arl said simply. “Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline.” He motioned to his left where Alistair still stood, arms crossed. “Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory against this Blight.” He ignored the fact that Alistair had been following _her_ all this time. 

“Oh, is _that_ all I have to do,” Alistair muttered, eyebrow raised. “No pressure.” Loghain shook his head.

“The Emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down,” he said, his voice a sharp threat, clear as day. “Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is _nothing_ I would not do for my homeland!” 

“Orlais has destroyed you all the same in the end,” Eideann said quietly, coldly. “They did not even need an army to do it.” He gave her an angry glare, then turned on his heel, stalking out, and his lackeys followed. Eideann glared at the back of Arl Howe’s head, willing herself to stillness, willing herself to calm. 

“Well,” Eamon said after they had gone. “That was…bracing. I didn’t expect Loghain to show himself so soon.” Eideann had known better. Eamon may be a smart man, and fairly good at political games, but Loghain was not a man of politics. He was a man of action. He acted rather than manipulated, and Eamon was playing the wrong game to defeat him.

Arl Eamon looked to her, and his eyes narrowed.

“Are you alright, my dear?” he asked her softly, and she shook her head, staring at the door.

“Howe killed my family,” she said, letting the burn for vengeance cover her a moment. “I cannot let him get away with it.” Also, if he has laid claim to the Teyrnir of Highever – which was never his right – she needed to take it back. They needed that Terynir, recognized by the Landsmeet. And Howe was a far simpler target to strike down than Loghain. He had few enough friends. 

“I would not ask you to,” Eamon said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder and gazing into her eyes a moment. He sighed. “Calling the Landsmeet is only the start. Now we must ensure that every noble there sees Loghain’s duplicity. We have no small task ahead of us.” He glanced to Alistair, then to Eideann, and she met his eyes with fierce ones of her own. “We need eyes and ears. Loghain’s been here for months. The roots of all his schemes must begin here. The sooner we find them, the better we can turn them to our advantage.” She nodded, and he sighed. “Go have a look around and see what you can turn up. Better yet, find the nobles who have arrived for the Landsmeet. Test the waters, see how many will support us. We can talk strategy after that.” 

Eideann did not look to the others. She turned away then. Now it was down to business, and if she did not leave that chamber soon, she would hunt down Howe instead.

***

“You assured me they were dead,” the cold voice said, anger obvious. Adwen shifted his tray and then bent to wipe down a table, listening to the conversation in the chambers beyond. 

“And they are, except her.” He knew that voice. The new Arl. He narrowed his eyes, and shifted to the next table.

He missed the next few words because a pair of servants entered, carrying the duck the cook had been preparing for dinner. The new cook, not the one he had bottled prior to the uprising. They clattered through and then set down the duck on its platter, vanishing back into the kitchens for more. 

“We sent an assassin! Where is he?” the cold voice said again. He narrowed his eyes. That was Teyrn Loghain.

“He was sent. I never heard back from him.” Finally something worth hearing. “And then there he was. You saw him standing behind the chit, bold as brass. He’s turned on us.” 

“You should hire better people,” the Teyrn’s voice said. “The Crows have turned on us it seems.” There was a pause, and nothing more. Adwen, eyes narrowed, adjusted the tray and then moved closer, but they had already gone. He sighed, crossing to the kitchen to deposit his tray, then checked the way was clear before slipping out into the gardens. There were workmen by the front gate, crying for wages that were several months in arrears since the uprising. He avoided them and went over the back wall instead, climbing up onto a broken vegetable cart and then heaving himself up and over. 

He had hidden his armor and bow and quiver in a barrel on the other side of the wall that he used to climb back when he needed to. He slipped into these, buckling them on, and then recovered his arrows. 

His feet took him up the steps of the Palace District backstreet, clean and well-cared for and a far cry from the dark and dismal alleys where the normal people lived. He narrowed his eyes and swept along, keeping his head down. Sometimes, if they saw an elf with a bow, the guards got rough here, so he kept to the backways as much as possible until he reached the stables on the northern side of the estate. There, he slipped in, and a groomsman looked up, surprised, as he joined him about the horses. They were freshly groomed and watered. The Arl and the Teyrn had been somewhere, but where.

“Do you know where they’ve been?” he asked, and the servant eyed him up, then turned his face back to brushing down the horse.

“Market District, Arl’s Estate, I heard them say. That’s me out. I’ve paid you my debt.” Adwen considered him a moment, then nodded. 

He had more than paid his debt. He had his answer.

He slipped away as quietly as he had come and took the western bridge over the River Drakon through the city entrance. By the time he reached the Market District, the red light of evening was starting to cover the city. He made a beeline back to Sera’s inherited property, and then let himself in.

“You.” It was the human, the black-haired one. 

“I have news,” he reported. “But I expect something in return.”

“News first, then we’ll pay up,” the Crow said darkly. Adwen eyed him up suspiciously. 

“When you find it, I expect it back. It’s important,” he clarified again. “You can have your man, and I get what I asked for.”

“Sure,” the Crow said simply. “But your last lead took us to Orzammar, and he wasn’t there, was he? So we’ll see if this one pans out.” Adwen considered the man a moment, then sighed.

“Fine. I overheard Teyrn Loghain and the new Arl talking about the assassins they sent after the Grey Wardens. That sounds like your man to me.”

“And?” Taliesen said with an arched brow. “Where is he?”

“Right here,” the elf replied, nodding in the direction of the door. “Market District, under your noses. He’s in the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate.” Taliesen narrowed his eyes, then looked away, pondering.

“How? Why?”

“He turned traitor and is working for the Wardens now,” Adwen replied simply. “My contacts told me that much at least before. You knew that much already.”

“So…he’s just there. Doing nothing?” Adwen gave the Tevinter a flat look. 

“I’d scope out the place, find out when he’s leaving, but that’s your business. I’ve found him for you. How you reach him is up to you. And when it’s done, I expect recompense.” The man just waved him away.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get what you asked for,” he said simply, and then left him then, presumably to arrange whatever mischief he needed next. Adwen was glad to be rid of him. They were in his house because he needed to watch them, to know what they were up to and what they were after. But he did not like them being around Sera. That girl was more than a handful, and always in trouble.

He should have left her when he found her in the alleys in the rain. He should not have brought her to his house and fed her some broth and let her sleep inside. She grew on people, like a fungus not a flower, and now he did not have the heart to turn her away. Even if she was a lying, thieving little snoop. She was the owner of the estate though, and that was useful. So he presumed he was technically being paid for looking out for her. But really, if she stole from the washerwoman one more time…

He sighed and climbed the steps to the rooms where they lived, but she had not returned yet. He was not too worried. She tended to run wild during the day and came home after dark when she was tired and hungry, having caused enough trouble he would find himself apologizing for days later. By now, a lot of people had started to work out he was the one who had taken her in, and they had begun bringing grievances to him. 

But what was he supposed to do? She was a child. And an annoying one. She was not _his_ so he had no real authority over her. And the other option was sending her back to the Alienage, but after the orphanage fire and the uprising and the ridiculous rumors of plague, and now the Tevinter mages that were making people disappear, he could not do that either. He was stuck with her, and she with him, so he had begun to take her under his wing a little, teach her the ropes. 

She had a firm belief in her own justice, and with a bit of training that could become a powerful weapon. He would introduce her to some other Friends soon, and see what they made of her. There was potential, there, if nothing else. And maybe even a future.

Now, if only she would stop getting caught when stealing, learn to shoot a bow better when he tried to teach her, stop causing so many problems for the people in the market…they might even start getting along.

***

The Gnawed Noble was packed for the early evening. Eideann wandered in, wary, and immediately focused on listening in, searching for faces she might know. She had gone with her black gown instead of the Grey Warden Armor, though she carried the Warden blades in case she needed to prove who she was. She felt, given the circumstances, it may be better to be circumspect, or at the very least not quite so flamboyant when the entirety of her power here rested on her Teyrnir claim and not on her rank as Warden-Commander. 

Alistair was wearing just the Grey Warden tunic, but he carried the shield, and Duncan’s sword. Just in case. She had left the others behind, except Leliana who was keeping watch on the streets for trouble. Ever since arriving it had become a very distinct possibility that Loghain or Howe might try to assassinate them again, and neither that nor the option of being sold out by people seeking the bounty particularly felt like good plans at the moment. 

Alistair looked distinctly uncomfortable at her side, but he was plain enough at the moment that she had no concerns that the others would recognize him, unless of course they had seen him before. It had been a good nine months since anyone had seen King Cailin, and features could be forgotten over time. She was more concerned over the fact it was Maric’s face minted on the crowns. Alistair seemed a bit more like Maric than Cailin, who had Rowan’s smile and eyes and gentle, childlike look on Maric’s jaw and nose and brow.

She was less worried about people recognizing her. In fact, she hoped some of them would, though she had not seen many of them for a great many years. She certainly had her work cut out for her, trying to earn their favor to stand against Loghain. Ultimately that was what the Landsmeet really was. The choice was less about who would be the king or queen. That question was secondary. The real question was who would lead Ferelden to war, and in that the choices were obviously against her to most: the Hero of River Dane, or a Grey Warden recruit who was known for kicking suitors in the shins and being dragged from tourneys by her father? Wonderful options there. 

And yet…many of those lords had respected Bryce Cousland, even so that when Maric had gone missing, and Cailin was still young, there had been some debate in the Landsmeet over whether Bryce should take up the throne instead. In the end, it was her father who had ended such talk, throwing his weight behind Cailin’s claim and shutting down all conversation to the alternative. But with that sort of support for the Couslands in the past…there was something she could work with.

She had worked with Leliana to tailor the black gown, which was nowhere near as fine as the beautiful one the bard had made from the red dress. All the same, this one now fit better, seemed less made for a peasant, and black was discreet enough she would not have to deal with too many people on the streets. That was the ideal camouflage. Her Warden cloak, thick on her shoulders and clasped with a brooch of the Warden griffons from Soldier’s Peak was warm and comfortable. She held it close about her over her blades, just in case people started to wonder. Alistair could pass as her guard if need be. They were safe enough.

Or so she had thought before she paused in the doorway of the Gnawed Noble and a knight stepped up to her, recognition dawning on his face. 

“I recognize you!” he declared sharply. “From Ostagar! Maker’s blood, you’re a Grey Warden!” He was quiet enough the room did not turn to look, but she knew that would change shortly if she could not head him off. “You killed my friend, and good King Cailin! I _demand_ satisfaction, ser.” Ser? She was a Teryna. She was allowed at least a ‘my Lady’. She fixed him with a cool look.

“Loghain’s charges against the Wardens are false,” she hissed angrily, her tone low, and Alistair beside her nodded.

“So you would compound slander on top of treason?!” the knight continued. “You _dare_ smear Teyrn Loghain’s word?” Eideann drew in a breath. 

“Use your wits,” she said back sharply. “The Wardens would never help the darkspawn.” The knight stared at her awhile, and then finally narrowed his yes.

“I do not like your tone, ser,” he told her, “but you may be right. I cannot in good conscience duel someone who may be innocent.”

“Then I suggest you leave. And quickly. Before you make more of a scene.” He glared at her, but he listened. She watched him go, and then she glanced to Alistair.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked her, and she smiled.

“We survived Orzammar. These politics will be nothing compared to that,” she assured him with a slight smile, and then she let it slip because she was watching about the room again, looking for faces.

She found one in the corner, Arl Wulff of West Hills. His lands lay between Waking Sea and Highever in the hills at the foot of the Coastland mountains. She had not seen him often, only once or twice, but she was willing to start anywhere, and since he was alone, she approached him cautiously. He looked up, clearly not placing her face, instead presuming her some sort of refugee. Perhaps the dress was working better than she thought.

Then again, she _was_ a refugee, technically. Highever was closed to her. And Highever was home. 

“Wonderful,” he muttered and looked away. “Another one. I suppose you’re here to ask for a donation too?” She blinked, then glanced to Alistair who was watching her with a blank look. So she stepped forward, skirts swishing softly about her ankles. And then he did place her face because he glanced back at her wearily. “You’re the youngest Cousland aren’t you? Probably looking for coin or men to take your teyrnir back, then. You’re better off asking the darkspawn. They hold West Hills now.” Eideann stared. Darkspawn in West Hills? There were Deep Road entrances of course, but she had been more concerned of them spreading northward from the Wilds. Those tunnels in the Deep Roads had been cleared when they passed through, or so she believed. She swallowed.

“I didn’t know the West Hills had fallen,” she told him quietly. “I’m sorry.” Maker, she needed to do her work quicker than she thought if they were rising up in pockets. Morrigan had said the Blight horde was spreading north, but soon all of Ferelden would be lost. Arl Wulff just looked at her with grim eyes shining with drink. His grey hair was like silver and jet in the dark corner.

“Well, I can see how you might miss it,” he muttered. “All of southern Ferelden, covered by black clouds, the ground rotting beneath your feet, plagues and darkspawn raids going on until even the crows get sick of the smell of carrion.” He sighed. “What’s a little trifle like that compared to the _important_ troubles here in Denerim?” He turned his face away. “There’s no point talking about it. Leave me. I’ve nothing for you, anyway. Pester someone else,” he muttered. She pursed her lips and then gave a Ferelden’s soldier’s bow before backing away. Alistair looked grim.

“Things are bad out there,” he muttered, and she nodded.

“We’ll make it right,” she said, fiercely. There was no other option but to do so. Arl Wulff wanted none of their sympathy and pity. He wanted an army. And the only way to give him one was to win the Landsmeet and raise it. 

The dwarven forces would have marched right past that Arling, she knew, and hoped they had done some good there on their way through. 

“Let’s see who else is here,” she said and gathered her skirts carefully. He crossed to walk at her side, keeping an eye out for trouble while she listened in.

They had more luck a little further in.

“Even you must admit the suspicious rash of mortality among the advisors to the crown,” one man was saying firmly. “Bryce, Urien, Eamon…”

“Eamon’s not dead!” the other man protested. “More’s the pity.” Eideann instantly decided not to like that man, and she placed his face as one of the Banns that fell under the auspices of Gwaren. He would be too afraid not to stand for Loghain. Sos he focused on the other man. “The only thing that truly worries me is Eamon’s noton of putting this bastard on Maric’s throne. It’s an ill precenden.”

“True,” the other lord said quietly, “I would rather see Anora keep the throne myself. Better it passes to the Mac Tir line then to some byblow.” Eideann could feel Alistair’s discomfort. And they were harsh words. Anora’s grandfather had been a farmer under Bann Loren in Oswin. Loghain might be a Teryn because Maric had made him so, but he had married a cabinetmaker. To say they preferred true commoner blood to a son born of the king out of wedlock did not sit quite right with her, especially in spite of all the rest of the information she had these men could not know. She decided to interrupt. One of those men was Bann Sighard. She could tell by the Dragon’s Peak crest on the clasp of his cloak. 

“Excuse me, my Lord,” she called, and he turned to glare.

“Whoever you are, I – wait…I know you…” He eyes went narrow, and then wide, and he half rose from his seat. “Aren’t you Bryce and Eleanor Cousland’s youngest?” She bowed her head slightly, respectful, and gave a slight curtsy.

“Bann Sighard, I trust your family is well?” 

“It’s good to see you’re alright,” he told her quietly. “Your cousin is here. If you find her…she will want to know you are alive…” Eideann looked up sharply. 

“My cousin?” she asked. He nodded.

“Bann Alfstanna.” On her mother’s side, then, but not her other cousin who ruled the Storm Coast Bannorn just west of Highever. She nodded and thanked him quietly. He overlooked Alistair, focused on her, and she was grateful for that given his words before. Instead, she curtsied again and then crossed back into the common room with more purpose. Now she was looking for someone in particular.

She found Alfstanna sitting with Arl Leonas Bryland. She thanked the Maker for her luck as she drew near. But she hung back a little to listen, to see if she could tell which way the wind blew there as well.

“What do you suppose Eamon is playing at?” Alfstanna was saying quietly. “Surely he doesn’t expect us to believe Anora unfit to rule with her father to advise her.” 

“I wonder that myself,” Bryland said darkly. “His timing is…unfortunate. South Reach is overrun. I’ve little time to devote to politics at present.” 

“Overrun? Has the Blight truly spread so far?” 

“Most of my freeholders have fled to Redcliffe and Lothering,” Bryland admitted, “but I doubt they’ll be safe there for long.” 

“Maker’s breath…Bryland, I had no idea.” 

“Be careful how loudly you speak of it…Wulff lost both his boys to darkspawn, trying to evacuate West Hills,” Bryland said grimly. Maker’s bloody breath.

Lothering had been destroyed, but it appeared that Arl Bryland had not been there in some time and was unaware. Months, he must have been away then. Alfstanna was her cousin, it was true, but if she showed herself now, she would find herself in the difficult position of explaining a lot of things in a very public place. She would need to bide her time and trust that her words would sway more when she called them all together. For now, she needed a way to reach them through other means instead. Bann Sighard seemed the most amiable, though he did not support Alistair, but as she was coming to see, this was not about Alistair or Anora. It was about Loghain versus the Grey Wardens. And she was lucky yet. They did not know that the Grey Warden that Commanded Ferelden’s armies against the Blight was herself. 

Armed with that knowledge, she turned on her heel and left the establishment. Alistair, confused, followed, watching her and waiting for answers, but for the moment she had none to give him. Her plan was forming slowly, too big to put into words yet. But she did tell him this much:

“They’re all worried about the Blight, and that is our biggest advantage. They won’t turn against Loghain unless we can whittle away his veneer. _That_ is our task now. Things we can prove, in writing or with witnesses. If we can find that, we can pull him down.” 

“And Anora?” he asked quietly. She smiled slightly, shaking her head.

“We shall see. Until she shows her true colors, I cannot presume to judge.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” Alistair asked quietly, peering about them and checking they were safe. “What if she just keeps to herself until the Landsmeet?” 

“Then we shall have our answer,” Eideann replied, passing under the portcullis into Arl Eamon’s estate. “But somehow, I think she probably won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a dialogue with Dairren in the noble origin, he suggests that Bryce was a candidate for King before he threw his weight behind King Cailin, so this is a lore friendly concept. :)
> 
> I'm still taking liberties with Sera, the Crows, Red Jennies, and Isabela, but I like the direction, and I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana confronts Marjolaine; Alistair finally meets Goldanna; Isabela meets a few new friends and plays a round of cards; Zevran comes face to face with Taliesen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)
> 
> Sorry for the delay again, but we're back on posting schedule. Next chapter already in the works and will be posted soon. ~HigheverRains

Eideann was haunting the halls. The idea of sleeping somewhere Rendon Howe had so easily walked into make her beyond nervous. Failing any productive sleep, she had decided to make the best of her time by thinking. 

The more she considered, the more she knew she was still missing some of the pieces. Anora was one, and perhaps the biggest, but there were others, here and there, scattered out of reach. Some she knew she would find out: why would a Grey Warden be required to kill an Archdemon? Why not anyone else? She had her own suspicions. But others she was willing to let go. Or would have been, if she was not awake well into the night, waiting for a dawn that did not burn red like blood the way it had after Arl Howe’s massacre at Highever. 

An elven servant gently set a half-full glass of Antivan wine, warm from the fire. Eideann looked to her, considering, then took up the glass and thanked her.

“You don’t need to stay up with me,” she said, and the woman gave a small bow of head.

“I usually tend the hearths this late, my Lady.” Eideann sighed.

“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you up.” The woman just shook her head.

“It’s nice to have someone in the house for once,” she said smiling, and then disappeared back into the halls to finish whatever other tasks she was undertaking. That left Eideann to sip the wine and gaze into the dying embers of the fire in the Arl’s small library, Angus sitting on her feet, deep in dreams.

There was a cold finality to it all, she realized as she swallowed a mouthful of the wine and savored the heat that pooled in her stomach as a result. She had always known it would come down to a confrontation, had always known she would have to stand against Howe and Loghain in the end. And yet now they were here, so close, and she just wanted to turn away, to walk as far as she could from Denerim, into the Blight itself, and die there for Ferelden instead of dealing with all of the mess. 

_You’re tired, and that is the wine talking._ The voice was not her own…Fergus’s then? She did not know. And she did not care. Not really. She just settled back into the winged armchair and curled her feet up beneath her, bowing her head.

_Be strong. They need you._

She woke in that same position some time later, when the room was filled with daylight, and started. She had not meant to sleep, had not even believed she could.

But she was not unguarded. With Angus at her feet, she soon realized that the other armchair before the fire was now occupied. Leliana sat, sipping something from a mug, peering into the flames. As Eideann stirred, she looked over.

“I have something to ask of you,” she said in her Orlesian accent, eyes narrow. Eideann knew immediately this was not the simple sort of favor. Leliana was calling in their debt. 

“Marjolaine?” she asked quietly. The woman gave a single nod. Eideann sat up, and disturbed Angus as she did so. He gave a low gruff then peered at her before leaping to his feet.

“I have found the house where she is staying, but she will not be there for long,” Leliana said softly, her voice now holding a note of steel left over from days as a bard in the Great Game. “We must move quickly. This morning, if we are able.” Eideann rose, and Leliana lowered the mug.

“Then we should not waste any more time,” Eideann told her firmly and Leliana rose. 

She slipped into her Grey Warden armor for the confrontation. Marjolaine had already sent mercenaries against them, and she had no doubt in her mind that there would be more waiting. She hesitated a moment over the blades, and then finally buckled on the Grey Warden set. She meant to keep that promise. The Cousland Blade was for Howe’s head alone. 

By the time she was ready to go, she found that Leliana had woken up Alistair and Zevran. Shayle, standing in the hall watching them, gave a disgruntled noise, but shuffled to look the other way. She was too obvious here in the city. 

Zevran had forsaken the bow he had been carrying for his knives, and he examined one as Eideann came to join them. 

“The plan,” he said, “is simple. We go in the front door, and we find this woman.” Eideann glanced to Leliana, who looked somber. Then she nodded.

“Alright, Leliana. Where do we need to go?” The Chantry Sister took the lead then, slipping out through the servant’s door. They took a few backstreets rather than crossing straight through the market, and before long came to one of the smaller streets within the richer side of Denerim where higher class merchants and a few of the Banns had their properties. 

There was a small plaza in the center of a square where a few servants were milling about filling water buckets from a central well or exchanging pleasantries, but other than that the square was empty. Leliana paused at the archway that opened up to the square and pointed across the way to a non-descript home set a little back from the others. Its shutters were closed, and it appeared for all intents and purposes uninhabited.

“There,” she said grimly. Eideann considered it, and then narrowed her eyes. 

“You’re certain?” she asked, and the Chantry Sister gave her a grim look.

“Yes.”

Eideann motioned to Zevran to take the left flank, and she took up the right. Alistair crossed the square looking nervous.

They did not bother to knock. Leliana simply sauntered up the door, bow in hand, and let herself in, eyes cold and dark. The interior was dimly-lit, but Eideann caught sight of the mercenaries she had been expecting by their sheer size alone. Qunari, several of them, and they had a mage as well. She gave a low hiss. Before a fireplace in the center of the main floor, a woman in Orlesian silk watched them with cold eyes and a false smile.

“Leliana!” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “So lovely to see you again, my dear.” She shook her head, hair smooth as silk and shining in the firelight cascading about her. Her lips were painted a deep red. “You must excuse the shabby accommodations,” she insisted, waving a hand at the house. “I’d try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with? This whole country smells like wet dog! Everywhere. I cannot get the smell out. Even now it is in my hair, my clothes…ugh.” Eideann reached to put a hand on Angus’s collar as the mabari gave a low growl. Marjolaine’s gaze flickered to the dog a moment, then back to Leliana and she gave her a flat stare. 

“Why did you send assassins?” Eideann said curtly, her fingers tangled in the collar at Angus’s neck. 

“So business-like, your companion,” Marjolaine said with a smirk. She seemed familiar, too familiar. Eideann did not like it. Something about her rang false in a very threatening way. Leliana stepped forward, bow drawn but lowered.

“You _framed_ me, had me caught and tortured. I thought that in Ferelden, I would be free of you, but it seems I am not,” Leliana said a voice so sharp it cut through the lies and bared the bones of the truth for all to see. “What happened to make you hate me so? Why do you want me dead?”

Marjolaine’s smile slipped a little.

“Dead?” She tutted and turned away, arms crossed, to pace before the fireplace that crackled and bore too much heat for spring. “Nonsense.” Her eyes slid to them in the darkness. “I know you, my Leliana. I know what you are capable of. Four, five men…you can dispatch easily.” She smiled slightly, that false smile again that did not touch her eyes. “They were sent to give you cause to come to me. And see? Here you are.” Eideann released Angus’s collar.

“We don’t believe you,” she said coldly, the ice in her voice making the room seem darker. Leliana gritted her teeth.

“You are so transparent,” she said. “What are you up to, Marjolaine? _Why_ are you in Ferelden?” Eideann heard the anger in her voice, years of pain, buried beneath the surface and left to simmer there. And she too gritted her teeth.

“In truth,” Marjolaine replied, all smiles gone now, “you have knowledge that you can use against me. For my own safety, I cannot let you be.” A flicker of anger ran through Leliana’s face, and Eideann took a step forward. Marjolaine ignored her. “Did you think I did not know where you were? Did you think I would not watch my Leliana?” she gave a cruel laugh and crossed her arms. “’What is she up to?’ I thought. ‘The quiet life, the peasant clothes, hair raged and messy like a boy…this is not her.’ You were planning something, I told myself. So I watched…but no letters were sent. No messages. You barely spoke to anyone.” She did smile again then, just the corner of her lips. “Clever, Leliana, very clever. You almost had me fooled. But then you left the Chantry, so suddenly. What conclusion should I draw?” She looked between them all then, her smile gone once more, and then fixed Leliana with her frosty gaze. “You tell me.” 

Leliana shook her head angrily.

“You think I left because of you?! You are insane! Paranoid!” 

Eideann had had about enough of Orlesian women. She had done her best to not hear the accent in Marjolaine’s words that rang like Isolde’s across the room. But she could not. This…selfishness. This…she shook her head.

“You are aware there is a Blight underway? Not everything is about you,” she said sharply. Marjolaine gave a soft chuckle, stepping forward and drawing close to Leliana, who froze like ice. The Orlesian lifted her hand to run through Leliana’s red locks, drawing so close that their faces were almost touching, and then she smiled.

“Oh, is _that_ what you think?” she asked softly, a mere murmur. Her eyes slid to Eideann who gripped her sword hilt tighter. “You look at her and you see a simple girl. But it is an act.” She drew away, twisting to meet Leliana’s eyes again. The Chantry Sister looked shaken. “You cannot change or deny yourself.”

Leliana looked haunted. And that touch…so familiar. She was staring at Marjolaine like any minute she may shatter. Eideann shook her head.

“I trust Leliana, no matter what you say.” Marjolaine gave her amused twist of a smile. It was the truth. It did not matter that Leliana was a bard. Eideann trusted her _because_ she was a bard, _because_ she could play the Game.

“Thank you,” Leliana said softly, shaking herself a little as if she were breaking a spell, and then glared at Marjolaine. “Enough. You will not threaten me or my friends again, Marjolaine. I want you _out_ of my life. _Forever_.” Eideann reached to draw her second sword. “It ends here.”

Marjolaine was moving as quick as lightning, and her blades rang out, catching Leliana across the cheek and leaving a thin sharp wound. Her Qunari mercenaries were slower, but equally as dangerous. Leliana recovered quickly and whirled about to fire a shot so quickly through the first Qunari’s chest that it seemed to blossom there like magic. He fell, and there was a roar as Alistair’s smite struck their mage. Eideann ducked the blow of a Warhammer and spun clear as Angus tore into the ankles of another of the mercenaries. Her blades came down, slicing through the man’s arm and sending him careening down. Angus gave a howl and charged him, bowling him over, and without both arms he had no hope of getting the wardog off. Eideann turned away, grimacing, and faced the next one.

Alistair’s shield knocked him off his feet, and his sword cut down into his chest, sending a fountain of blood across them. 

Leliana gave a shout, and Eideann looked up to see Marjolaine closing in. There was no space to draw a bow, no time to nock and arrow. Eideann gave a shout, tearing Duncan’s knife from her belt, and throwing it. Leliana caught it and spun, getting clear without a second to spare. The knife in her hand found its mark in Marjolaine’s back, and the Bard Master fell, gaze transfixed. Leliana’s aim was impeccable. 

Zevran finished up the last Qunari, pinning his arm with one hand and ramming his other knife home in the Qunari’s eye before yanking it free and taking a few steps back in case the corpse did not realize it was dead. And then they stood, amid pools of blood, and Eideann did a final check.

Leliana was staring down at Marjolaine, eyes wide and mouth open, like she could not breathe. Eideann wet her lips, then took a step forward.

“Leliana?”

“She’s dead.” Her voice was flat, disbelieving, void of actual emotion, though that quickly caught up. “She’s dead because of me.” Eideann lowered her blades and Leliana turned away, unable to look anymore. “I…need some time…” she breathed, and fled, taking three big steps backwards into the other room and ducking out of sight. Eideann watched her a moment, then carefully crossed to Marjolaine and bent to pull her dagger free, wiping it on the Orlesian silk gown. The she looked up at Alistair and Zevran.

“Search the house. See if she left anything to suggest if she had other plans here,” she said quietly.

But the rest of the house was decidedly bare, especially odd for an Orlesian. It appeared that Leliana’s determination that Marjolaine would be relocating soon had proven true. There was only one thing of value they found, and it was a bow of red-stained dragonthorn, laced with gold. Eideann considered it, and then pulled it from its rack and turned away. 

Alistair and Zevran loitered in the main chamber, dousing the fire so the home itself would not be set aflame when they left and catch the district alight. Eideann left them to it and carefully let herself into the other chamber where she found Leliana. The bard was sitting, back to the wall, beside the door, curled up with her arms on her knees and her face buried in her arms. Eideann paused and then slowly knelt, and Leliana looked up with tear-stained cheeks. 

“She didn’t trust me,” she said in a voice so quiet it hardly seemed to come from her. “Maybe she never did. She loved me when she could control me, and when she couldn’t she wanted me dead.” She looked away. “It hurts to realize I never really knew her.” Eideann shook her head, drawing a breath.

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “people surprise you.” 

Rendon Howe…

“I knew she was ruthless,” Leliana said bitterly. “She was self-serving, cruel, but that’s how she survived in the life she lead.” She looked up, eyes haunted. “What if she was right?” she asked quietly, voice raspy. “What if we’re the same? I…I should have just stayed in the Chantry.” 

Eideann settled back to sit with her.

“And you think that would have made it better?” she asked quietly. Lothering’s Chantry was gone, destroyed by the darkspawn. Just like Highever was destroyed for her. “We cannot live backwards,” she said softly.

“You don’t understand,” Leliana said sharply. “I felt _safe_. I didn’t have to watch my back all the time. That’s what made Marjolaine the way she was. It _ruined_ her!” She blinked away another wave of tears. “It will ruin _me_ too. It’s already happened. Seeing her dead gave me satisfaction.”

 _We are not ruined by caution. The world does not allow people to be ruined._

“She did you a great injustice,” Eideann told her simply. She planned to return the favor to Howe as Leliana had done to Marjolaine, after all. 

“But that is no reason to rejoice over her death,” the bard muttered. “Part of me loves it. It invigorates me, and this scares me. I…I feel myself slipping.” Eideann put a hand on her arm, startling her from her dark thoughts and forcing her to meet her Cousland Blue eyes.

“Marjolaine,” she said firmly, “chose who she became. And so can _you_.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, fear in her eyes, and Eideann smiled slightly, shaking her head.

“Evil,” she replied simply, pushing herself up and then holding out a hand to Leliana, “doesn’t worry about not being good.” Leliana stared at her a moment, considering her hand, and then finally reached for it and took it with a nod. She looked back up to Eideann’s eyes and there was something else there now. Not fear…gratitude. 

“Leliana,” Eideann said quietly, “go to the Chantry here in Denerim. Grieve the way you know how to. You know where to find us when you’re ready.” The bard released a breath and then looked away, nodding.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and Eideann just gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go and turning towards the door. 

“Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s get out of here.” 

***

Eideann splashed the water over her face and then bent to dampen the cloth she used to clean off her armor. A journey back to the gates of the Chantry covered in blood had hardly been pleasant. Those who did not give them a wide berth usually got confrontational and threatened to call for the guards. Given that Eideann was trying not to deal with people in a violent manner, she was doing a poor job so far.

And yet, Marjolaine had been a threat, to Leliana and thus to her, and now she was gone. She could not regret that the woman’s plots had been ended. Or at the very least she could not regret that her life had been ended. Her plots remained to be seen. 

About her, the soft hush of the Chant hovered in the air, still and pregnant and poised for…something. The Chantry Sisters were giving her a wide berth, but two Templars stationed at the gates were eyeing her up nervously in the courtyard.

Leliana had disappeared into the Chantry, ushered in by a nervous-looking Sister. Eideann had let it be at that. After all, the bard desperately needed to find her center again, and Eideann was no help there. Leliana had found her peace once in the Chantry. She would return when she was ready. 

She wiped the blood from her breastplate and then sighed, wringing out the cloth over the bucket she had drawn from the well. Something was not right. She had felt it since they had left this morning. But she could not quite put her finger on it.

“Spies,” Zevran said out of nowhere, eyeing her up with a bemused expression. He was twirling one of his blades carelessly. 

“What?” He stood up from the wall and shook his head.

“It is not surprising to think we are being watched, is it _Bella_?” he asked, and she sighed. No, it was not. But she did not have to like it. He smiled. “Don’t worry. If they make any wrong moves, I shall gut them like fish.” 

“Zevran, what if they’re here for you?” 

“The same thing, I would think,” he replied simply, turning away. “Where to now, my beautiful Commander?” She sighed, and then stood up, wringing the last of the water from the cloth and checking for anywhere she had missed. Then she dropped the cloth into the bucket and turned to where Alistair was standing under the archway. 

“I think we have one more stop,” she said quietly. “Wait here a moment.”

“Of course,” Zevran said, offering a slight bow, and then stepping back. Eideann shook her head and then crossed to Alistair, who was staring up the path.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

“I just…I was trying to remember the address,” he said after a moment, glancing to her. “For my sister. I think she might live off the Market District. That’s not far from Eamon’s estate, really.” Eideann smiled slightly.

“You remember the address,” she told him, reading right through him. “You’re just nervous.” He sighed.

“Yes. Yes I am. What if she doesn’t remember me?” Eideann shrugged, linking her arm in his.

“Alistair, if you want to go and see her, we need to do it now, today. Pretty soon people will actually start recognizing you, and that will make it much harder.” He sighed, then held himself a little taller.

“You’re right,” he said firmly. “I want to go. Let’s go.” She nodded and smiled at him and gave her a small smile back. “But what if she doesn’t remember?” 

“You won’t know unless you ask,” she said simply. “Where is the house, then?” He called to Zevran who came to walk with them, a knowing grin on his face, and they made their way into the backstreets of the Market District. Away from the main plaza, the streets grew narrow very quickly. Almost too quickly. And they leaned, the way old buildings often did, so that above them someone could have passed a sausage from one building to another across the road through the windows. The cobblestone streets were a little broken down this way, as if the place had fallen into disrepair long ago. Those streets had probably stood for hundreds of years themselves. 

There were signs on the doors here, announcing different shops and services. The one they were looking for was down near the end, two houses up from the last in the row, as cramped and dirty as the others. But it had a big wooden sign with fading paint declaring it the Washerwoman, and Alistair looked nervous enough that it had to be the place.

There was a screaming and a laugh, and three children came careening from out of the doorway, pelting off down the street at some game. Angus gave a yap after them, but Eideann calmed him with a low whistle, and then drew close to Alistair, who was still standing before the door. 

“Well, aren’t you going to go in?” she asked him, and he drew a breath, looking to her, then the building again.

“Do I seem a little nervous?” he asked. “I am…I really don’t know what to expect.” He paused a moment, and then he turned to her abruptly and she blinked. He took her hand in his, and she glanced to it, then back to his amber eyes. 

“Alistair?” she asked. He drew another deep breath.

“I’d like you to be there with me…if you’re willing.” He looked away. “Or we could…leave, I suppose. We really don’t have time to pay a visit, do we?” He nodded. “Maybe we should go.” She gave a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“We just walked all the way here,” she told him, turning to the building and gripping his hand tightly, pulling him a little forward. “Zevran, keep watch with Angus?” The elf grinned and gave a small salute, turning to consider the street. Angus sank into a seat beside him. Alistair resigned himself and took a half step to catch up to her, biting his lip as Eideann reached to push open the door.

It was dark inside, and humid from boiling vats used in laundry. It was hanging everywhere on lines weaving all about the front room. There was a back room as well, but no one immediately obvious manning the front. Alistair looked to Eideann, and she nodded to him, urging him forward. He took another step inside and then swallowed.

“Hello?” he called. There was the sound of something being dropped in the back, then a curse, and then footsteps. A woman with strawberry blonde hair emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You have linens to wash?” she asked, distracted a moment by her laundry lines. “I charge three bits on the bundle, you won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.” Eideann blinked and Alistair hesitate a moment before finally finding the words.

“I’m…not here to have any wash done. My name’s Alistair,” he said. The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m…well this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna?” She looked between them, definitely suspicious now. “If so, I suppose I’m your…brother.”

There was a silence a moment, everyone waiting for something, and then the woman seemed to grow, stiffening and staring at them. 

“My what?” she demanded. “How do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you folk up to?” 

“He’s telling the truth,” Eideann said softly. The woman just stared at her a moment, then back at Alistair with a wild expression. Alistair pressed on.

“Look, our mother…she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that?” he tried. “She – ”

“You!” Alistair cut off short, alarmed, and Goldanna stepped forward, peering at them. “I _knew_ it! They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I knew they was lying!” she spat, then crossed her arms. 

“They told you I was dead?” Alistair asked, alarmed. “Who? Who told you that?” Eideann narrowed gaze a little, looking between Alistair and Goldanna, but kept her silence. 

“Them’s at the castle!” Goldanna insisted. “I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!” She looked about, glaring at the lines of laundry, and Eideann pursed her lips. Alistair shook his head.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t know that. The babe didn’t die,” he tried to explain. “I’m him. I’m…your brother.” The woman actually spat onto the floor at their feet then, shaking her head angrily.

“For all the good it does me!” she hissed. “You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time?! That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!” Alistair looked crestfallen. Eideann shook her head.

“That’s hardly Alistair’s fault, is it?” she said softly. He was a newborn at the time. Whatever he had expected by coming here, it was not this. 

“And who in the Maker’s name are you?” Goldanna demanded, eyes skimming over Eideann in disgust. “Some tart following after his riches I expect?” Eideann almost laughed in surprise, but Alistair immediately responded. 

“Hey! Don’t speak to her that way!” he said in a firm tone, angry on her behalf. She was a little touched, if it was not so ridiculous. She hardly needed defending from irate washerwomen. “She’s my friend, and a Grey Warden, just like me!” There was an ounce of pride then. Better a Grey Warden than to declare themselves nobility in her small house, but she had been tempted for a moment.

“Ohhh, I see,” the woman said snidely, glaring at them and then turning to rip down some of her washing and fold it angrily. “A prince and a Grey Warden too. Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me?!” She tossed the folded laundry onto a workbench and then tore down another. Alistair stared, like he did not know what to do. And then finally she looked up at him, anger and hurt in her eyes. “I don’t know you, boy. Your royal father forced himself on _my_ mother and took her away from me,” she snapped, but her voice was quieter now, and full of pain. “And what do I got to show for it? Nothing. I’ve got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I’ve got less than no use for you.” Alistair was frozen, so Eideann drew a breath, looking to him.

“Let’s go,” she told him softly. “Now.” He nodded vaguely, and she pulled a little on his arm, until at last he turned and stalked out. Eideann paused at the door, and the woman was glaring at her, wary and impugned upon. Eideann considered her a moment, then drew forth a handful of gold from Leliana’s bard earnings at Orzammar, gifted to her after they had come out of the Deep Roads. She set the handful on the workbench by the door, letting it spill into a small pile.

Goldanna stared, eyes wide, and then looked up at Eideann who just gazed back coolly.

“Feed those boys,” she said softly, and then pushed through the door.

Alistair was pacing back and forth, and Zevran was watching him with a slight air of amusement at his uncharacteristic musing. When Alistair caught sight of Eideann, he whirled on her, shaking his head.

“That was not what I expected,” he said, his voice a little annoyed. “I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do?” He sighed, glancing up the street where three of Goldanna’s children were playing in a puddle. “I feel like a complete idiot.” Eideann reached up to pull his face about and meet her gaze, holding him there a moment.

“You’re _not_ an idiot,” Eideann told him firmly. He sighed, and bowed his head slightly, but she shook hers and then pulled him up to meet her gaze again. “You do, however, need to stand up for yourself.” He narrowed his eyes and she sighed. “We can’t be soft,” she told him, finally letting him go. He did not turn away this time. “We are Grey Wardens. And whether you like it or not you are Cailin’s heir. There is too much at stake for you to let people keep walking all over you, myself included.” He considered her a moment, then finally sighed, turning away and running a hand over his hair.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, but something was broken in him now. 

“Come,” Zevran said from nearby, his look solemn. “It is not safe to stay here any longer, my friends.” Eideann nodded, and Alistair sighed. Zevran gave them both a large smile. “How about we take the longer way home and stop by the docks on the way back. I know a good place to get real Antivan Brandy and a woman there who will brighten your day immeasurably.” 

***

“Stop playing games, Isabela. We want our money!” the one with the silly mustache shouted. His friend drew his sword. Isabela smirked and shook her head.

“I think you forget who you are speaking to,” she told them, shifting her feet into a stance. “I will give you a chance to leave quietly.” Beyond them, Casivir was shaking his head, a grim look on his face like they had been in this position too many times before. 

Well, they had. Too many people insisted on trying to take money they thought was theirs when she so rightly took the burden from them at cards.

“You brazen hussy!” the one with the sword drawn declared, and Isabela raised an eyebrow. “Someone needs to put you in your place!” He came charging at her, and she whipped out her knives, bronze engraved handles like old friends in her palms. She whirled about, one angled as a defense, the other ready to throw, and stepped up onto the table by way of the bench, careful not to spill the whisky or ale, though it did scatter the cards. 

Ah well, she’d have to set it all up again anew anyway.

The first closed in on her and she parried him, slashing at his jerkin until the strap came loose and he almost lost half his clothes. Then second came at her from the other side, and she flipped down over him, knocking him back, and stabbed his own sword through his collar to pin him to the wooden floor. The third gave her a wary look, and she grinned, beckoning for him. He glanced to the others, then shook his head, and fled. 

“She’s too good!” he called back.The other two, one holding his jerkin in place and the other yanking his sword free of his damaged shirt, hurried out after him. 

“Be off with you now, and be glad I only took your gold!” Isabela grinned and then dropped down onto the wooden floor, scooped up her whisky, and downed the last. It burned in her throat, sweet flames and hints of almond, and then she settled back against the table like it were a seat of sorts. “Heh, fools.” 

The bell at the door rang, and she looked up in time to see the last person on earth she expected. 

_Ah, Zevran…_

“And look who we have here!” she called, holding up her glass. Zevran’s eyes met hers across the tavern floor and he grinned back, signaling for his companions to come join her. Sanga, lovely hostess that she was, dropped a fresh bottle of whisky onto the table, and Isabela immediately filled her glass again. “Come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?” she asked over the top of the glass, eyeing up the assassin. Zevran lounged over the table. 

_How very delicious…_

“You know it was just business, Isabela,” he said with a smile. “Business that turned out well for you. You inherited the ship.” There was something devious in his eye. “I saw it in the harbor and knew it could only be you. There is only one place to find a lady such as yourself.” 

His companions were a pair of humans in silverite armor bearing the Grey Warden crests. One, a woman, had eyes the color of the Storm Coast, and a grim determination of someone who took themselves too seriously. The other was a man, slightly somber, and obviously embarrassed to be in an establishment such as the Pearl. She glanced back to Zevran who looked between them casually.

“I suppose I never did like the greasy bastard,” she said simply, waving away the slight. Luis had deserved every bit coming to him. Zevran…she owed Zevran. More than she would ever be able to repay. He had been her liberator. “The Siren treats me far better than she ever did him.” 

“Zevran?” The woman said, her voice full of warning, and Zevran smiled. 

“This,” he said, pushing himself up, “is Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn.” He smiled to her. “And Isabela, my dear, you will no doubt be amused to discover that I am travelling with a couple of Grey Wardens. Allow me to introduce Eideann and Alistair.” Isabela lifted her glass and then took a long drink before smiling.

“Charmed,” she said, winking to the woman who seemed a little taken aback at the action. She sheathed her knives, one by one, and then stretched her neck. 

“So what was that fight about?” Eideann asked. Isabela grinned, sinking into a seat and motioning for them to join her. 

“None of these poor brutes has ever proven a match for me. They’re too clumsy and predictable. I fight with quickness and wit, rather than with brute force and strength,” she explained. 

“You’re trained as a duelist,” Eideann said, sharp as a tack.

“Look at you, sweet thing,” Isabela replied, then considered the other Grey Warden. Cute. Alistair was blushing. And he kept looking to Eideann like he was taking cues from her. She smiled.

“Puppy love,” she sighed, and then drank down another of her glasses of whisky before offering to pour some for all the others. Only Eideann took her up on it. Alistair refused. Zevran called for Antivan Brandy, and that seemed a better idea actually, but too late now.

“Excuse me?” She considered him, then grinned wickedly.

“Strong hands,” she announced, and he blinked. “Could I entice you to leave your order and sign up as one of my crewmen?” He glanced to Eideann, then hesitated.

“I…don’t know anything about sailing,” he told her, as if that was any excuse not to try. She just smiled, tilting her head a little and feeling her hair fall down her back.

“The ship is the best teacher,” she told him. “She will guide you with her sighs…her shudders, her gentle swaying as she rides the crests of the waves.” He looked away, blushing madly, and she chuckled, then considered Eideann who was smiling ever so slightly. Well, well, not quite so serious then.

“My dear,” Isabela said, toasting her. Eideann sipped her drink. Isabela leaned onto the table, peering at the woman. “You wouldn’t consider…leaving Alistair with me, would you?” Eideann was staring, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps let me borrow him for a week every summer? I’m sure we could work out a deal.” Eideann glanced to Alistair who was openly staring now, and then gave Isabela a wry look that the pirate decided she liked. 

“Would you lend me your ship?” she asked, and she said it with the tone of voice that suggested she knew what to do with a ship. But the point was made. 

“Of course not!” Isabela laughed. “You would misuse the ship – which, I suppose, is exactly what I would do with Alistair, though I suspect he would enjoy it while the ship wouldn’t.” The man shifted, shaking his head.

“Not that the idea of being borrowed isn’t terribly fascinating,” he said with the look of a Chantry boy, all flushed and determined not to be hot and bothered, “but let’s not forget the darkspawn. There may not be a week every summer, or any summer.” Eideann sighed and gave Isabela a wistful shrug. Isabela sniffed.

“Darkspawn! Is this the only thing men think about these days? What about the good old obsessions? Breasts, firm buttocks, wet frocks.” Alistair turned away, cheeks bright red.

“Hmm…wet frocks,” he muttered, more for their benefit, but Eideann stifled a grin. Zevran, sitting beside Isabela grinned and drank a gulp of his Antivan Brandy. 

“So why _are_ you here, if not to partake of the lovely ladies and gentlemen?” she asked him, and Zevran just shook his head.

“We are whiling away the hours,” he told her. “While we still can.” She considered them, then reached to gather the fallen cards and shuffle them into a pile on the table. 

“Well then,” she said knocking the pile flush, “honor me with a game. Have you ever played Wicked Grace? It’s easy to learn, but difficult to master. You must watch your opponent’s moves as carefully as your own. Five cards each to start with, and my the cleverest player win.” She began to deal out the cards, and Eideann was surprisingly the one who stepped up, gathering her hand and tossing a pair of silver coins onto the table. Isabela grinned and met the bet.

The extra cards slipped into the tops of her thigh high boots would mean she could fleece a Warden if she were lucky. What a tale. 

Alistair proved hopeless at the game and quickly dropped out, knowing when he was beaten. Zevran lasted a little longer, but his eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. His art was in knowing people, and he knew she was cheating. She could tell he knew from the look in his eyes. But he kept at it, for the fun of it, and eventually dropped out.

Eideann was some nobleman’s get, she was certain of it. She had all the markings of someone who had been raised to play cards nicely and do things proper. In short, she was everything Isabela found tedious and boring.

Except for when she wasn’t.

Isabela had deliberately slipped the three angels into her hand as she went through the rounds, and Eideann only had a song and a serpent, practically nothing. She flipped the card, the Angel of Death, and smirked.

“Time’s up, sweet thing. Time to face the Maker.” She turned her cards over and Eideann settled back, smiling, and cast her own down.

Eideann did not have nothing. She had the Knight of Dawn, brilliant and bright, fire on the cards. She gave Isabela a knowing look.

“If you’re going to cheat, expect others to as well,” she said, but only collected the winnings she, Zevran, and Alistair had put in. “Keep your money, the game was enough.”

“Bloody Wardens,” Isabela laughed, shaking her head. “Anything to win, is it?” Eideann nodded, a knowing smile on her face.

“Something like that.” She rose and downed the last of her whisky like she’d been doing it all her life, and Isabela had her pegged for a Coastlander right then and there. “We had best be off.” 

“Aww, going so soon?” Isabela asked, rising and coming around the table, leaning close enough to the woman to feel her breathing on her skin. It gave her goosebumps. “Zev, you won’t let them go without…a tour below decks will you?” 

“Enough, Isabela, you and your ridiculous appetites,” the elf laughed. “I do not think Eideann is interested.” The woman had taken a step back and reached to wrap her arm about Alistair.

“I’m afraid we shall have to decline the honor, pretty as the offer may have been.”

“Suit yourself,” Isabela said, shaking her head. “Some people just don’t know how to have any fun. You shall stay though, won’t you, Zev?” He sighed and shook his head.

“Alas, I must be away about business. But I shall see you again sometime soon, my dear Isabela. You may count on it.” She smiled and then let him go.

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” she told him as they reached the door. “Don’t you forget it.” 

***

He was nervous. He could feel the eyes watching them, and knew that they were closing in. Ever since he had caught sight of the orange-haired elf in the green tunic that he had seen wandering the Market Place, he had known that something was going to happen. He had led Alistair and Eideann away from the Market and towards the docks, hoping that the elf on their trail was merely in the area, but he was there too when they finally left the Pearl. 

Anytime now, it would happen. He knew a trap when he saw one. 

“Eideann, we’re being followed.” She looked up sharply, eyes dark and fierce, that fire that blossomed in her when he used her name instead of calling her _Bella_. 

“Where? Who?”

“Probably Crows,” he said honestly, because he did not know who else would be following them, regardless of whether he was the target or she and Alistair were. After all, Loghain and Howe did not strike him as the sort of men who gave up when something went awry in their plans. It was perfectly reasonable to assume they would try again.

He thought of Rinna then, of the sound of her voice in the darkness, of her laugh and the way she felt in his arms. And he thought of Taliesen, and the way he laughed, and the way he felt in his arms. And he drew a wary breath, forcing himself to focus. 

That would not happen again. 

So when the elf with the orange hair appeared briefly behind them again, he knew that it was time to face it. And when the elf disappeared, he knew that a confrontation was upon them.

The area was not defensible. They were in a lower back-alley, open and a little grassy, sporting a well and a few houses, but mostly just pavement and nowhere to hide. Worse, there were steps at the end that led back up to the Market District, and they turned corners that were desperate for ambushes.

There was nowhere else.

“Eideann, stop.” 

She did, because he used her name again. Alistair, eyes narrowed, paused to look between them.

Zevran had been through too many ambushes to not recognize one when he saw one. He drew a breath, glancing to Eideann, and then looked up to the steps.

“Come out,” he called. “I know that you are there.” 

He had not really expected it to be him. Of course it was, and part of him had known, but for some reason he had not expected it. He had seen the knife in Orzammar, Crow-issued and bearing the same markings that Taliesen had always used. Part of him had always known that it would be Taliesen who would be sent to track him down.

But Rinna…he could still see her blood on Taliesen’s hands, even now, in his mind’s eye. 

And it hurt his heart to think on it.

Taliesen’s black hair was the way it always was, and the shadow of a beard about his mouth. Zevran remembered how those lips tasted, and he forced the thought away. Taliesen was staring back, a slight smile on his face, of irony, not anything else. 

“And so here are the mighty Grey Wardens at long last,” he said, voice ringing out, Tevinter accent soft on his tongue. Zevran tried not to think of what other things that tongue was good for. “The Crows send their greetings, once again.” 

“Did you volunteer for the job?” Zevran asked quietly. Taliesen gave him a sardonic smile, shaking his head. 

“I volunteered, of course,” he said, his voice bitter. There were notes of anguish there as well. The same as when Rinna…when…no. “When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.” 

“Is that so?” Zevran said, raising an eyebrow. He did not want to kill him. He did not want to be there at all. “Well here I am, in the flesh.” So many nights together, tangled, entwined, gasping for breath. So many nights nestled with Rinna, together, all three as one.

And then she had been betrayed, and their trio had been shattered. There was no space for two where three had been, without the emptiness threatening to split them apart. 

There was no space now either. The Taliesen he knew, he loved…that Taliesen was gone. This…was a shadow. This was a lie.

“You can return with me, Zevran,” Taliesen said, and his eyes were soft and sad. It was as close to begging as he had ever come. “I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.” But the mistake had been not leaving sooner, when there was time to save Rinna. The mistake was long since gone, and it could not be made right. 

And yet there was an ache. Seeing him again, there, almost close enough to reach. He only had to climb the stairs, to reclaim his lost life and have Taliesen. He only needed to push aside the emotions of loss as he was trained to do, to forget about loving Rinna, to leave that in the past. 

_You are an assassin. There is no room in that for love or regret._

“Zevran.” 

Eideann’s voice was soft, cool, like a breath of fresh air or a taste of fresh water. He heard it, a soft chime in the darkness, summoning him forth.

He was there to battle the Blight. For the first time in a very long time he was there to do something because it was right. It was the noblest thing he had ever done. The Crows…no. He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, my old friend,” he said quietly, looking to Taliesen, who seemed to shrink at his words. “But the answer is no. I’m not coming back…and you should have stayed in Antiva.” 

They both of them knew that this confrontation could only end one of two ways now: either Zevran died, or Taliesen did. And it could not be Zevran. Not anymore.

Eideann’s swords rang free of their sheaths. Arrows were nocked and bowstrings stretched. Alistair gave a roar and charged.

Zevran drew forth his knives, the ones for throwing not for fighting, and whirled about, letting the first blade fly, and the orange-haired elf in the green tunic fell, dead.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera makes a deal with Master Ignacio; Zevran opens up to Eideann about Taliesen and Rinna; Alistair makes a decision; Sten is given a message; Eideann and Zevran confront the Crows; Sera deals with the death of Adwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

She did not stay to see anymore. He mind was a blur, her head in a panic. She turned tail and fled, back the way she had come, up through Silver Lane and into the Market Square.

She should never have followed him. 

After promises of answers, she had spent all night trying to come up with good questions, all the questions, everything ever she wanted to know. She had done her absolute best. And when she finally realized it was barely before dawn, she had hurried home. 

She had presumed Adwen would be asleep, so she had gone to bed after checking the bedroom door where he stayed was shut tight. It was, so confident, she had gone to bed. She had woken up a little later than expected, to find him gone, and she was so angry, she had gathered up her bow and quiver and gone off to find him. He had promised after all.

She had wandered to the Arl of Denerim’s estate, thinking he had gone to work, but by the time she got there, they told her he had gone out to lunch. And when she got to the Market District where he usually had lunch, she had managed only to catch a glimpse of him disappearing up the road with Tali’s son, talking heatedly about something.

She had spent the rest of the afternoon following him, determined to know what he was doing and why the bird people were in her house.

And now Adwen was dead, and so were the other people Tali’s son had gathered, and Tali’s son was also dead, and she could not even think straight.

She burst through the front door into the derelict estate and fell to panting on the floor, tears clouding her eyes.

Now what would she do? Live alone? With no one to care for her.

“Ah, the little sparrow has returned.” She was up in an instant, drawing back her bow with no real skill, hands shaking. It was the old bird man…Crow?...Master Ignorant or whatever. She stared him down.

“Stay away.” He considered her with eyes like sharp pinpricks in the semi-darkness of the house. 

“I will not harm you.” His voice was soft, like he gave up on sentences halfway through saying something.

“This is my house!” she yelled. “Go away!” He narrowed his eyes.

“You look pale. Are you alright?”

“He’s dead! He’s dead and it’s your fault.” 

“Ah.” The man turned away, and went back into the parlor. Sera stared a moment longer after him, then lowered the bow. It was hurting her arms to hold it anyway. “Come in here, child,” he called.

“I said go away!” But she followed him, because she didn’t know what else to do. With Adwen dead…

No…it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

She thought of Lady Emmald, grey with fever, and shook her head violently to force the pictures away. 

She had seen him fall, a blade in his heart. His blood on the ground had been the color of roses, red, deep red. A rose puddle. 

Red.

“Do you know who your friend was?” the man asked her when she drew into the room. He was sitting now in one of Lady Emmald’s old chairs, though it was still covered with cloth beneath him.

“A servant,” she said. If she kept talking she was not thinking. That was good. She didn’t want to remember.

“No, not a servant. He just pretended to be a servant,” the man explained. “Your friend was a member of a group that helps people.” Adwen liked helping people. But she did not trust this Master Ig-thingy. “They are called the Friends of Red Jenny,” the man continued.

Red, rose puddles, pooling underneath. Red like anger. 

“Who is Jenny?” The old man shook his head.

“I do not know,” he told her.

“It doesn’t matter. He is dead because of you!” she yelled, stomping her foot down. “My friend is dead! And it’s your fault! Yours! Go away!” The man shook his head with a sigh.

“I’m afraid it is not so easy. I cannot go yet. I have one more thing to do.” She shook her head, but he held up a hand to quiet her. “Your friend was going to be part of it. But with him gone, I must ask you. If you do this one thing for me, then I shall go, and take my people with me.” 

There was a silence for a very long moment, and then finally she shifted uncomfortably. 

“What thing?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his arms.

“I need you to help someone. Can you do that?” 

“Who?” she insisted.

“A little boy,” he replied quietly, “who is alone and frightened. He was taken by bad people. Bad things should happen to bad people. Help me help him, and I shall go.” Sera crossed her arms about herself, looking away. 

_Everyone needs someone. I help people who cannot help themselves._

She glared up, and then pressed her mouth into a thin line. The old man bird just stared back, expressionless, with his pinprick eyes. 

“Fine.” She said. “Just tell me what I have to do.” 

***

Eideann knocked softly on the open door and Zevran looked up, eyes flat, from his drinking. The bottle of wine was some of the best, imported from Val Royeaux and stocking Arl Eamon’s cellar. The cook had complained, and Eideann had settled her with a promise to refund the cost when he was done. She had no idea where she would find the funds, but she knew full well what Zevran needed.

Zevran was burying grief.

There had been something in his eye on that field, facing down that man, Taliesen. There had been the haunted look of lost love, and something else beside. 

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and he turned away.

“And there it is,” he said after a moment, clutching the neck of the glass bottle and staring into the flames of the cook’s fireplace, the pots bubbling away with the evening meal. The poor cook had forsaken the place he had filled with his grief. “Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows.” His head was bowed. “They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen,” he told her matter-of-factly. “So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.” 

“So what does this mean?” Eideann asked carefully, quietly. He shook his head slightly and took another drink from the bottle.

“I do not know,” he admitted softly. “It seems I have options now, whereas once I had none. He looked up, and his eyes were dark and shadowed. “I suppose it would be possible for me to leave now. If I wished, I could go far away, somewhere where the Crows would never find me.” He shook his head, looking away. “I think, however, that I could also stay here. I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?” His voice had none of its usual humor. Eideann pushed off from the wall and crossed to him, bending to take the bottle and drink from it herself. Mixed with the whisky from earlier, it came across as bitter, a little sour even.

 _Nothing compares to the first cup,_ she thought bleakly. Then passed him the bottle again.

“If you want to go, Zevran, I will not stop you. The choice is yours.” He sighed, chest falling a little, and looked at her with sad eyes seeking answers.

“But that is what I am asking you. Do you want me to go? Do you need me here?” he asked her, and she caught the tinge of desperation in his voice. He wanted to run away, but something was stopping him. She sank into a seat on the stone of the deep firepit, avoiding getting too close to the flames, and considered him. 

“My friend,” she said softly, “there are precious few people in the world I would rather have at my side. You will always be welcome in my company.” Something eased in him and he looked away, nodding, and drinking again.

“Then stay I shall,” he said quietly. “I’m with you until the end, _Bella_. Provided you do not tire of me first. Or I die. Or you die. But there you go.” She smiled slightly, then settled back, leaning against the stone mantel. 

“You were…close…to that man,” she said warily, and he looked up. “He was your friend.”

“He was,” Zevran said softly, “and more…” He set down the bottle and bent forward, fisting his hands into his hair. “But there is no need to relive the past. That is all behind me now.” Eideann considered him, then moved the bottle aside, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, to consider him. He looked up, and she shook her head a little.

“You and I both know that the past can haunt us forever,” she told him quietly. His gaze slid away, then back and drew a breath. 

“Yes,” he said at last. “I suppose it is time. You have been a good friend to me, after all. There is no reason to be silent.” He let his hands drop and fixed her with a look, like he were confessing his sins to a Chantry Sister and she was meant to bless him in turn. But there was something far more private about it, and far more accepting as well. He drew a breath. “There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident.” He mulled over the words a moment, and Eideann listened in silence, letting him speak it in his own time. “My last mission in Antiva…did not end well.” She was watching him when he met her eyes, and she saw the pain buried there. “You must realize that until that day, I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often…both as an assassin and a lover.” He looked away bitterly. “One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise. A wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.” He clasped his hands before him, peering into the fires like they would burn away the darkness he carried. “Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was…”

In the silence in that single breath, she knew all she needed to know.

“A marvel,” he finished quietly. “Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired. And Taliesen…well…we were mere boys together.” He smiled faintly, and then it fell into a frown and he squinted a little into the fires. “Rinna was special. I had closed off my heart, I thought but she touched something within me. It frightened me.” He looked to her. “Taliesen was our strength, and Rinna our fire, you see. All three of us…we were raised to be a team, to be together. Both on the field and off.” Eideann tilted her head slightly, considering him, and he shook his head. “When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her.” He closed his eyes tightly, jaw working for the words. “Rinna begged me not to. On her knees with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us.” When his eyes opened, there were tears shining there in the firelight. “I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true, I didn’t care.” 

“It wasn’t true,” Eideann said quietly, and he shook his head angrily.

“I convinced myself it was,” he told her roughly, words catching in his throat a little in his grief. “Taliesen cut her throat, our lover, his and mine, and I watched her blood as she stared up at me. I spat on her face for betraying the Crows.” He looked to her again, eyes alight with anger and pain. “When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.” Eideann shifted slightly, reaching until his hand was in hers. He watched it, surprised, and she held it in both of hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, as if those words were enough. Zevran blinked away tears.

“I…wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt.” He grimaced. “We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me toldme so to my face. He said the Crows knew…and they didn’t care. And one day, my turn would come. To rub it in my face perhaps, that I was nothing. That she was nothing.” He shook his head angrily, peering back into the fires.

“She was not nothing,” Eideann said softly, “and neither are you.”

“She was a princess, bastard daughter of Prince Estefan, I later learned. Prince Claudio Valisti heard that a group called Rosso Noche wanted her to become the Queen, and they bribed the master to have her killed. It was a test…loyalty to the Crows.” He shook his head. “And here I am. Rinna is dead, and Taliesen with her. And only the son of a whore is left.” He looked to her, and carefully drew his hand back. “You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows,” he said quietly. “In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens?” He shook his head, but did not look away this time. “And then this happened. And here I am.” She met his gaze, peering through into his soul.

“And is that still what you want?” she asked, fearing the answer. He smiled ever so slightly and shook his head, somber and quiet.

“No,” he told her gently. “What I want is to begin again. Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal.” She shook her head this time, and crossed her arms, considering him gently.

“You owe me nothing,” she told him, voice soft but clear over the flames. He smiled slightly and closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“Thank you, my friend.” She smiled, rising, and stood over him a moment before wetting her lips.

“I, Teyrna Eideann Cousland of Highever, recognize your oath has been fulfilled and choose to release you from it,” she said quietly, and he stared at her, not in wonder or surprise, just subdued admiration.

“My Lady Cousland,” he said simply, “I am your man, without reservation, this I swear.” She nodded. “There is one more thing.”

“Oh?” He rose and considered her, eyes serious.

“One of the men in the ambush…I recognized him from the job against Arl Urien.” She raised an eyebrow and he met her gaze. “He was a Red Jenny agent, operating here in Denerim. He supplied information on Arl Urien for us, for a price. I still owe the Red Jennies that.” She considered him warily. She was aware of the Friends of Red Jenny, a secretive organization that often struck out against injustice and those who abused their power. They were the bane of the nobility, and a bad enemy to have. If nothing else, she would see this done, just to keep them placated. With a Landsmeet impending, she did not want trouble coming from the dark corners of the shady underbelly of the city. She nodded to Zevran.

“Alright, we shall settle your debts. What price?”

“It may not be something we can provide. I had people in my ambush party who were to infiltrate the Circle Tower and retrieve something…a box. They requested it specifically. But since the ambush failed, those men are dead. Perhaps, since the Circle Mages are aligned with you now…”

“A box?” she asked quietly, musingly, and he nodded. “I…come with me.” He blinked, eyes narrowed, but he followed her, and at his absence the kitchen staff finally managed to reclaim their space and get back to work. The cook was tutting over the state of her bubbling pots, but it was enough to know that Zevran was doing better. 

She led him up to the chambers that Arl Eamon had given her, and let herself in. The trunk he had supplied stood at the end of the bed, and she threw it open, carefully moving aside her things and digging about until at last she found it. She pulled it out, a small thing, barely bigger than her hand, and turned to him.

“This box?” she asked. He peered at it a moment, then looked up, amazed.

“You found it?” he asked. “This is the box.” 

“Then take it.” She held it out to him. She had no use for it anyway. She could not even open it to see what was inside. He hesistated and then carefully took it, holding it in both hands and examining it a moment before glancing back to her.

“Thank you, _Bella_ ” he told her, and then slowly drew away. 

“Zevran?” He looked back over his shoulder, and she met his gaze. “Whatever else may have happened, I am glad to have had you along on this journey, my friend.” He just met her eyes, no longer hiding behind smiles, and nodded.

“And I you, _Bella_.” He narrowed his eyes just a little, and looked away. “You remind me a little of her, you know? I am glad to have found a companion such as you.” 

And then he was gone. 

Eideann sighed, closing her trunk, and then sank into a seat atop it, staring at Angus where he was sleeping on the floor beside the fireplace. It was empty, unlit, but he was there all the same, presumably because of the thick carpet on the floor before the hearth. 

“I won’t ask you if you trust him,” came the soft voice by the door of Alistair. He was in the room beside hers, and had come to stand in her doorway. She glanced to him and he sighed, uncrossing his arms and entering. “I trust you. That is enough.”

“Everything will be just fine,” she told him quietly, and he sank into a seat beside her atop the trunk.

“You, solving all the world’s problems,” he muttered, then his smile faded a little. “I….I’ve been thinking.”

“About?” He glanced to Angus, then back to her, face open.

“Back when we left Goldanna’s, you told me I needed to make more decisions for myself, and I’m beginning to think it’s true,” he said, and for once his voice was not questioning or seeking approval. It was just firm and strong and determined. “I need to stop letting everyone else make my decisions for me. I need to take a stand and think about myself for a change, or I’m never going to be happy.” Eideann considered him, heart aching a little. But the determination made her feel stronger too, in much the same way her own often impacted him, and she reached to wrap her arm about his.

“Don’t let me influence you, Alistair,” she told him. Maker, one of them was enough. Let him keep some of his innocence if he could. She could bear the darkness for them both. 

The idealistic part of herself believed that to be true at least.

“No, what you said made sense,” he told her, shaking his head and then moving to tilt her chin up a little with his finger. “You were right. I _should_ be looking out for myself more.” He hesitated, his hand moving away from her jaw. “Or did I not understand you?” She smiled slightly, turning away.

“No,” she smiled. “You understood just fine.” He nodded and smiled.

“Then from this point on, I’ll be looking out for myself more. I should have done it a long time ago.” He glanced to her. “I just…wanted to thank you. Being with you is the one bright spot out of everything that’s happened. It sounds stupid, but you are my family.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Eideann laughed softly, shaking her head. “I have to lead you against an Archdemon yet.” He bent to catch her mouth with his own and then pulled back after a brief kiss, smiling.

“To the Void itself if you ask, love,” he murmured, and then kissed her again.

***

Mostly, it was about the cookies. They sold them out in the Market Square, under an awning, freshly baked each day. Sweet things, confections, and inexpensive. A copper each, the man had told him, after eyeing him up nervously. So he had taken them. 

He was a good baker, that man. 

He was just settling down to eat his newly purchased cookies when the boy came running up. He was small, eyes a muddy brown, hair a muddy brown, clothes a muddy brown…

Parashaara, did the Tamassrans in Ferelden not care to wash their charges?

Most children were in awe of him, or else frightened, at least most human and elven children in this country. But this one was no such thing. He came right up to him, stared at him a moment, and then held out a piece of paper in his hand.

“This is for Zevran,” he said simply. Sten took the paper, and the child rushed off. 

Ah, a child with a purpose, even if a messenger. How refreshing. 

He sighed and gathered up his cookies, adjusting Asala on his back, and then crossed the Square towards the Arl of Redcliffe’s Estate where they were staying. He caught sight of Leliana crossing to join him from the Chantry yard where she had been all morning, and waited a moment. She looked troubled.

“What is wrong?” he asked her. She just gave him an odd look.

“A Templar is missing,” she replied, but did not say more. He did not really know what to say anyway. He still was not entirely clear on what Templars did. He figured them for some sort of Arvaarad to keep mages at bay, but how that all worked together, he did not know. At times they almost seemed to use some sort of magic themselves. “What is that?” she asked him, gazing at the paper.

“A message.” Was she blind? What else would it be? Love poems?

“For who?”

“Not you.” She gave him a look like she was irritated, but that was her problem, not his. The letter was not for her. And that was all she needed to know.

They passed through the double doors into the keep, and before long encountered Zevran trying to convince Shayle of the joys of flesh. Sten paused long enough to drop off his note, ruin the entire mood by sending Zevran into a dark spiral, and save Shayle from what appeared to be a rather tedious sort of conversation.

He did not honestly know what to make of the golem. Once, she had been a dwarven woman, but no longer. She had given up everything, even her own body and mortality, for the purpose of being a weapon. That was something he respected. 

At the same time, in doing so, she had made herself a possession, abandoning the living creature. Even with the control rod that would command her to act broken, she wore the chains. It confused him. He let it be, deciding he did not need to understand.

Over the months, the golem had queried him on all manner of things related to the Qun, and eventually they had developed a mutual respect. Whatever confusion was caused, it did not change the fact that the golem was a powerful, dedicated construct, capable of grasping some of the finer points of the Qun without much instruction. Of all their companions, he found Shayle the easiest to understand, at least superficially. 

That such things were even possible…that was the true wonder.

“You are eating more of those things,” the golem declared judgmentally as Sten took another bite of the sweet confectionary. “If you eat too many you shall get fat. It happens.” Sten gave an intrigued look, then took another bite.

“Fascinating.” Sugary confections that deliberately made people large. 

Ferelden was a very strange land.

***

“You are certain?” Her voice was clipped, and Zevran gave a sharp nod. “But everyone in that alley was dead but us.” 

“Someone must have seen or heard. I thought Taliesen had remained alone, but it appears that there were other Crows about.” 

“I don’t understand,” Alistair said grimly. “They ambushed you before. Why send you a note this time? Why ask you to meet somewhere as public as the Gnawed Noble?” Zevran’s eyes were hollow.

“A Crow does not need an alley to pull off an assassination,” he replied. “Regardless, they found us, easily enough, and the Crows were after you as well, Grey Wardens, not just I.”

“Then we go,” Eideann said firmly, adjusting her tunic about her and tightening her armor. They were almost at the door. Zevran gave her a shake of head.

“This is dangerous, _Bella_ ,” he warned, glancing to Alistair who looked grim. 

“This is politics,” Eideann replied.

“The Game is always dangerous,” Leliana agreed. She crossed to join them from the library, the red dragonthorn bow in her hands. “Something must be done about these Crows, and quickly. We cannot have them hounding our backs.”

“They’re assassins!” Alistair protested. “If we get involved in this again…”

“Too late,” Leliana said, shaking her head and running her hand over the wood of the bow thoughtfully. “They have reached out to us. I suggest we answer in kind.” She exchanged glances with Zevran who nodded.

“So be it,” Eideann said quietly, and Alistair finally relented, settling his shield on his back. 

They crossed the square rather hurriedly this time, earning a few looks from guardsmen as they did so. Within the Gnawed Noble, their presence in Grey Warden armor made them targets of suspicion. Several of the nobles that were in the common room took notice at their passage. Eideann marked the faces, but the most influential of the Banns were not among them so late in the afternoon. They would be home at their estates. Only the lesser Banns were there to see.

They were directed by a serving maid who looked decidedly nervous towards the back rooms, and it was there they finally came face to face with the man who had sent the note.

He was balding, and old, clad in Antivan leather and silks. His eyes were like pinpricks of silver light in the darkness. He stood before the small fireplace in the inn room, arms crossed. And at their approach he turned to consider them.

“You here about the note?” he asked in his lilting accent. “Maybe we have some things we can talk about.” Eideann considered him warily. Zevran stepped forward, putting an arm out to keep her where she was. He looked angry.

“Just see the conversation stays civil, Master Ignacio,” he said sharply. “If this is a trap – ”

“Zevran.” His quiet voice silenced the elf. “You were Taliesen’s responsibility. Other Crows may try to kill you, but in my eyes you’re already dead.” It made a chill settle over her, but at least there was that. If this man was determined to see it that way, then why were they here? Zevran glowered. The silver gaze slipped to Eideann. “But the Wardens here…they are of great interest to me.” Eideann shook her head.

“You were hired to kill me,” she said frankly. A small smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth.

“Who do you blame for a death? The sword or the swordsmen? The Crows are swords, but the Crows as a whole have no bias.” He glanced to Zevran, then back. “ _I_ wasn’t hired to do anything. An associate was.” Zevran grimaced.

“I’d like to see you do any better,” his shot back. A flicker of anger touched Master Ignacio’s eyes.

“Do you take me a fool? That’s a contract I’d never take!” He looked to Eideann again, schooling his features to a semblance of calm. “A client can always hire more…help if the job isn’t done the first time. But I’m hoping we can make sure that doesn’t happen.” Eideann glanced to Zevran who looked wary but was not giving her any sign he was deliberately concerned about that statement. Perhaps that was genuine. 

“Is this true?” she asked him softly. He sighed, then looked to her solemnly. 

“I’ve only heard of one time an entire House of Crows was hired for a job. A princely sum changed hands and an entire noble family died. Not one soul survived.” She thought of Highever and forced the memories away. “Ignacio has the right of it,” Zevran said firmly. “Generally it is one master one job.” 

Surety against the Antivan Crows would help them battle the Blight, if only because it meant they would not be kept up in these foolish games any longer. 

“Alright,” she said quietly. “I’m listening.” 

“Ferelden is a busy place,” he mused, waving his arm. “Blight, civil war, other mayhem. Lots of people not getting along. Sometimes they _really_ don’t get along. Maybe want to do something about it.” He crossed his arms again. “The people that handle that sort of thing can get real busy.” She knew where this was going.

“You’re tragically mistaken if you think I’m an assassin.” He gave her a wry look, eyes flickering this time to Leliana and then back to Zevran. 

“Of course. You are Grey Wardens, a Prince and a Teyrna. Your company is merely your company because it suits you.” She scowled and he paced before her, crossing into the firelight. “It takes time to do a good job – pride in your work and all – but customers have expectations. Not many people to turn to if you’re short-staffed in some lines of work.” His eyes flickered to her. “So someone that’s crossed our path and lived…well, maybe they could help out. Make some coin. Everyone wins.”

“I don’t want your blood money,” she spat. He gave a soft chuckle.

“I hand you a scroll,” he said, pulling a rolled parchment from his tunic. “You read it, you learn about someone interesting. If you find out something happens to him, something unfortunate, then if we talk again I give you money for ‘letting me know’. You don’t like what’s on the scroll, don’t do anything. Maybe he has an accident and someone else tells me all about it. I’m sure you will find _this_ scroll quite interesting.” He held out the scroll, and Eideann considered a moment before taking it. She unfurled it slowly, glaring at him, then skimming the paper before snapping it shut once more. 

_Fuck._

“If I do this for you,” she said flatly, “I want no more Crows after me.” Master Ignacio gave his small smile. 

“One Master had a contract on you, but it appears he has failed. But if another comes looking and asks for help, maybe he only gets silence, yes?” Eideann considered the man, then the contents of the scroll. Realistically she could not refuse to act. She had to. The job was not just a Crow contract, but important to her as well. Master Ignacio had known as much when he had sent his note. It was the job of assassins to read marks well. 

She held out the note for Zevran who skimmed it, then looked up, shaking his head.

“You are a cautious little weasel, Ignacio,” Zevran said with distaste. “What’s your angle? If you’re playing us false…”

“My Dance is not for you,” the Crow said simply, coldly. “I need to be real…honest sometimes. And I can say I haven’t asked anyone to do _anything_. I’ve just given someone something interesting to read.” Zevran grimaced.

“And you think that will save your hide when they nail it to a wall?” he said grimly. Ignacio gave a slight smile, bitter and angry.

“You are already dead in my eyes, whoreson. Take care that I don’t ‘learn’ otherwise.” Zevran crossed his arms and turned his face away and Master Ignacio looked back to Eideann. He considered her, then crossed his arms. “Luck be with you, Lady Cousland, Prince Alistair.” And he turned away, waving them away with one hand. Eideann clenched her fist about the scroll then threw it into the flames to burn away and turned on her heel. Master Ignacio gave a soft laugh behind her.

“Eideann, this is a bad idea,” Alistair said quietly beside her as she made her way back down the corridor.

“Yes, but we cannot say no.” 

“Of course we can say no!” he demanded. “We are Grey Wardens! We can’t just…kill people…to help ourselves.” She gave him a flat look. “Right. Of course. You’re not going to, are you?”

“That note wasn’t an assassination as you are thinking,” she told him quietly. “Zevran knows it, he can confirm if you don’t believe me.” 

“Then what was it? Why all the cloak and dagger nonsense in there?” Alistair demanded, glancing to the common room to make sure no one could hear. Eideann sighed.

“He was helping us…in his own way.” She felt troubled as she pushed her way out through the door into the square. 

“The mark is a young boy,” Zevran said quietly. “The son of a noble man. He has been kidnapped by Arl Howe’s Guard Captain. We are to get him back, and strike a blow against Arl Howe.” Alistair stared a moment, then shook his head.

“No. Eideann, I know you want Arl Howe to pay for what he did. I understand. I do. But we can’t just go wiping out an Arl’s personal guard on the word of an Antivan Crow!” She gave him a dark look. “We can try to help the boy some other way. We can…”

“It’s a ransom drop,” she told him frankly. “The noble is paying, and that money will be used against us. But if we can stop it, we earn his loyalty. Master Ignacio is a Crow, yes, but as you should know by now, in Antiva the Crows play politics. We need all the support we can get at the Landsmeet. And this saves a little boy from Rendon Howe.” He looked uncomfortable, so she shook her head. “You do not have to be involved in this. I shall go on my own, if I must, Alistair. I won’t make you do it. But politics has never been about playing nice. Never.” She looked to Leliana who gave a solemn nod, then Zevran who was staring out unseeing across the square, jaw set. And then she fixed her gaze on Alistair. “I have to do this. For this little boy, for his father, and for us. I can’t just decide this one doesn’t suit me. And if we do it, the Crows will leave us alone.”

“You’re rationalizing things again,” he told her softly, and she nodded.

“I have to. If I don’t, I’ll drown in it,” she replied. “The drop is tonight, and we shall go without you.”

“And what if the boy gets caught in the middle? What if the boy gets hurt?” Eideann shook her head.

“I will never let that happen, even if I take the knife for him,” she said sharply, feeling like fire that suddenly flared up. She had failed Oren, and she had failed Connor, but this little boy she could save. And she meant to.

They returned to the estate not long after, where Alistair hung about as if he were waiting for her to say more. But her decision was made, and finally she managed to send him off by retiring to her rooms to sleep. The previous night had made her tired, certainly, and he saw the exhaustion that had settled over her no doubt. He always did see through to her when she had little care for the details of her own survival. 

She slept through dinner and woke sometime after dark to the sound of someone knocking softly on her door. For a moment she thought of Highever, and a wave of panic rushed over her. She pushed herself up, but Angus on the rug was not concerned. That calmed her a little. So she rose, Duncan’s knife slipped into her belt, and made her way to the door warily. 

It was only Zevran, who met her eyes in the darkness and she knew then it was time.

She pulled on her Grey Warden leathers since they were deliberately walking into danger, but over the top she layered her fur-lined cloak to disguise the uniform somewhat. She left her swords behind, instead picking up her bow – Alistair still had the crossbow from Soldier’s Peak among his things – and fastening the quiver at her belt. She checked the knife was there, and for good measure borrowed one of Zevran’s which she slipped into her boot just in case. She felt lighter than normal without the swords at her back, and a little undefended.

Sten was there, Asala at his back, and Leliana in dark black and red leathers, her gaze set in the evening candlelight.

“We are ready,” she said softly, and Sten gave her a small bow of head.

“Lead on, kadan,” he told her, and she nodded.

Wherever Alistair was, she was going without him. He did not need to get involved in this. 

She felt nervous as they navigated the streets of Denerim, because such things should not be in her purview. But she had already committed to it, and if she did not go there was a good chance a boy would die that night. She could not let that happen.

The location for the exchange was a small alley somewhere south of the harbor near the city walls. The darkness there made all of Denerim feel sinister and looming. Buildings towered high above, oppressive and imposing. The people that normally filled the streets were gone, though occasionally lights poured from home and tavern windows, and there was the sound of laughter within. 

But the cobbles were the home of footpads at night, and she was wary, bow in hand. Zevran led the way, eyes narrowed to slits in the darkness, and he seemed to meld into the shadows like made of the night itself.

Sten kept anyone else from coming near by his presence alone. Eideann took some comfort in that.

“Our priority is the boy,” she told them all softly. “Nothing can happen to him. The rest…well, we shall see what can be done.”

The small square was empty when they arrived, and for a moment Eideann suspected a trap, but then there was the sound of armor clinking, and a few soldiers clad in the livery of the Howes, glittering bronze and green, cloaks and all, crossed the paths. At their head was a man Eideann recognized from Highever. He had accompanied Arl Howe there on that fateful night, so many months ago, and it stung like poison to her heart when she caught sight of his face. It was Captain Chase, of Howe’s personal guard, 

She had not really realized how raw those wounds still were, and how badly Denerim made them worse. 

“Where is the boy?” a man called from across the square, coming to stand beside Eideann and her companions. “You get nothing until I see the boy.” Eideann narrowed her gaze, and Zevran gave her a look which settled her. Crow agents then. They had not been left to do this all alone. She hoped this would not implicate Zevran further.

“Show me one of the bags,” Captain Chase called, arms crossed.

“Not a chance,” the Crow agent called darkly, his voice thick with the accents of South Reach. Captain Chase shifted his weight, and Eideann slipped an arrow from her quiver, nocking it for a quick fire. Something was wrong.

“Well that’s not a particularly smart attitude when your dear boy’s life is on the line, is it?” the guard called with a shake of his head.

“He does not have the boy,” Leliana said suddenly, sharply. Captain Chase overheard it, and reached for his sword. 

“Deal with no one else! Attack!” he called, and his guardsmen sprang into action.

Eideann’s arrow found his throat, and Leliana’s met it there. Captain Chase staggered backwards, and then they were in the thick of a fight.

Sten’s Asala carved a space for them, and Eideann dropped into a crouch, firing off another volley at the nearest guard to descend upon her. Zevran came out of nowhere, slitting the man’s throat roughly and then turning to stab another in the back. 

When it was done, the blood was soaking into the earth about them, and the Crow agents eyed them up, pointedly not looking at Zevran. 

“We’re done here,” the man who had been speaking before told her, his voice dry. She shook her head.

“Where is the boy?” Eideann demanded, and the Crow simply gave her a small shake of head, as if he knew nothing, and turned away.

Eideann gave a low curse.

“Master Ignacio has played us false,” Zevran said softly, and Eideann shook her head again.

“Perhaps. Or maybe Howe. I do not know which I trust less.” She nudged the corpse of Captain Chase and then turned away. “For Rory,” she said softly. “At least there was that.” 

Rory Gilmore – Roland Gilmore – son of a Bann and childhood friend was dead at the gates because of this man. She closed her eyes and offered a silent prayer in his memory, then left Captain Chase to rot in the dirt.

“Let us see if Ignacio can tell us more.”

They found the man in the Marketplace, helping to pack up a market stall. The man with him, Cesar he was called, greeted them with a bow. Obviously this was their spy then, this was the one who had watched and waited. Eideann glared at him, then at Master Ignacio. 

“Ah, my Lady,” he said with his false smile. “I heard there was quite a scuffle in the alleyways. Well done.” Eideann crossed her arms, standing to block his packing, and Zevran had his knife drawn as a warning. 

“Well done?” she said darkly, fully aware that the night has ears in the city. “The boy wasn’t there.” He smiled slightly, then raised his eyebrows knowingly, motioning for Cesar to keep working.

“Don’t worry, Warden,” he said quietly. “Some ‘friends’ have rescued the boy.” She paused, letting that sink in, and Ignacio pushed past her to close a chest of ingredients and gather some papers from the stall. “He’s already safely home and back with his father…his very important father.” It was all very matter of fact. “You took care of the father’s other requirement. The man who kidnapped his son, Captain Chase, is quite dead thanks to you.” Eideann glowered, cloak wrapped tight about her.

“And why didn’t you tell me that?” she asked pointedly. Ignacio glanced to her with his pinprick eyes and smiled, settling the chest atop the cart they were loading. 

“We are told only what we need to know,” he said simply. “That’s an assassin’s life. All you needed to know was your target. Any more information you got was really a bonus.”

“I am not an assassin!” she hissed through gritted teeth. He shook his head, smiling, and turned away.

“Oh there are many types of assassinations, my dear Lady. Some end up with a target dead. Others are far worse. You excel in the latter, I think, destroying people in your own way. Such was the case in Orzammar. And here, now, with this Landsmeet. Oh yes, Ferelden is a very busy place, and you are in the center of it all.” He smiled. “I have nothing more for you,” he told her then, loading another box onto the cart and then clapping his hands together to clear them of dust from the Market Square. “My superiors want me to convey their thanks,” he said simply, his eyes flickering to Zevran. “The Crows aren’t accepting any new contracts on you. And when this Blight ends, we’d love you to visit Antiva to discuss other…opportunities.” He smiled. “The House of Otranto sends their regards, and hopes you find success in bringing down this Rendon Howe.” He motioned to Cesar, who hauled himself onto their cart, and then gave her a bow. “Lady Cousland, it has been an honor.”

Eideann watched them go, breath caught in her throat, and then swallowed.

“House Otranto?” Leliana asked quietly, her voice a clear question of confusion. Eideann did not look back.

“Oriana Otranto married my brother. He…he was working for my in-laws.” Zevran glanced to her, his eyes dark, and motioned with a tilt of his head towards Arl Eamon’s estate.

“Come, _Bella_ , it is time for brandy,” he said softly, “and to let the old hurts heal.” She nodded, and he touched her arm gently. “I will meet you shortly, so set me out something strong,” he said. “There is something I must first do.”

***

Sera sank back against the wall by the door, burying her head in her hands. That little boy, half her age, so frightened. They had found him in a locked room in the Arl of Denerim’s estate. She had never broken into a house before, except possible her own, and it had felt dangerous. But she wanted her home to herself again, and it was something Adwen was going to do. She had used his key, kept safe in his room, and let the small group in.

 _I help people who cannot help themselves._ Little people, like that boy. She felt angry just thinking of it. He was a little boy, held because his noble father would not do what some other noble said. Big people didn’t care who got hurt, so long as they could keep playing their games. 

The others who had gone with her, all two of them, were older, but they had the same grim look as Adwen had had. She did not know their names, but they had told her she had done well, and promised that if she needed them, she only needed to ask. Someone would point her in their direction. They were Friends. 

She sighed.

A soft knock came at the door, and she started, looking up. The bird men were gone now, and she was alone. Who would knock? 

She hesitated a moment, and for a long time did nothing, until finally she reached to open the door.

But there was no one there, only darkness and silence, and whoever it was, they were gone. 

But they had left something there on the doormat, a small painted box, the size of her hands. 

And an anxiety settled over her.

Adwen’s box of secrets.

She looked about again, but the street was empty, so she reached to pick up the box, and turned back inside, locking the door behind her before carrying it up to her room.

This was it then, what he had worked so hard for. It was locked, but she knew how to pick locks. He had taught her, and it was the one thing she was really good at. She set it down on the floor beside her bed and went to his room to gather his lockpicks. 

As she worked at the tumblers, she could hear his lessons in her head. Left a bit, right, feel it give slowly, when it’s ready it will release. 

Something was inside. Something Adwen desperately wanted, needed. Something worth dying for.

And the tumblers fell, and the box gave a click, and she held her breath, hands shaking. She willed them to calm.

And opened the lid.

Nothing. 

It was empty, there was nothing inside. It was only an empty box, lined with velvet, where once it had held something. She swallowed, hard and closed it shut, settling back.

_Nothing is worth dying for._

She buried her arms in her hands and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about Oriana:
> 
> We do not know her maiden name, so for story reasons I made her an Otranto. Forgive the liberty, but it tied it up in a neat little package, so I felt it appropriate. 
> 
> Notes about Rinna:
> 
> She actually was in the lore the bastard princess someone wanted to make Queen, and a rival house did require her murder, so this is actually true. I kept that in there, and let Zevran know about it, because I think it helps paint his character fairly well for what he makes of Alistair in the middle of all of this. Taliesen/Rinna/Zevran as a relationship is apparently confirmed in Bioware's World of Thedas book now, so the whole thing goes together rather nicely.
> 
> Notes about the Crows and the Friends of Red Jenny: 
> 
> While I have taken some liberties with this story (Master Ignacio being sent by the House of Otranto; Adwen as a Red Jenny; Red Jennies and the Crows having some business together; Red Jenny Adwen being Isabela's contact in a roundabout way for her story pre-DAII) I don't think I really changed much by way of the story. Much of this is either implied or lends itself to the ideas, at least in this setting. Also, much of the conversation Master Ignacio has with Eideann and Zevran in this chapter is transcribed true to the story, including where he says that 'friends' (quotes included) rescued the boy. So I hope you all liked the intrigue involved and I hope it makes the Inquisition and DAII Isabela stories better. Obviously we will see Zevran in DAII again, and there will be more about Isabela and Zevran then. For now, we're closing in fast on the Landsmeet. 
> 
> I will stay fairly true to story now until we reach post-Landsmeet, where I'll make a few alterations. But it's a fairly straight line now towards the Archdemon, so I hope you all continue to enjoy it! <3 Thanks lovely readers!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and Alistair receive a message from the Queen; the Grey Wardens infiltrate the Arl of Denerim's estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence

She still could not sleep, not there, not knowing he had been in those halls. Not knowing that if he wanted to he could do so again, and there was nothing the Redcliffe Knights who had accompanied them could do to stop him. So Eideann wandered the halls until at last she came upon Alistair, sitting in the small study, book in his hands.

He looked up at her approach but said nothing, instead closing his book gently and beckoning to her. So she went, Grey Warden leathers still stained in blood, and he gathered her into his arms regardless, taking her for what she was in that moment.

“The boy is safe,” she finally said. 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he told her quietly, and she did not reply. So he wrapped his arms about her and kissed the top of her head, eyes closed, holding her to his warmth.

“I can’t,” she at last admitted into his chest, once she felt warm and safe. “He’s been here.” She did not need to clarify who. He already knew. So he simply twined his fingers into her short hair, feeling it soft against his skin, and shook his head against hers.

“Eideann, you’re letting him win,” he finally said, and she bowed her head a little.

“I know…”

He drew back from her, eyes like warm amber as always, and she met them, desperate for…anything…security? Safety? Forgiveness? 

He took her hand. 

“Come then,” he murmured, and gently guided her from the study and down the hall to her own chambers. He closed the door behind him, and carefully worked the straps of her armor loose until she could slide out of the leather and metal and was left in the Grey Warden tunic and trousers. And then he removed them as well, slowly and gently, before bundling her into the bed under thick down quilts and tucking her in. She gave a small laugh at that, because she had been expecting something else. 

He just shook his head with a light smile and turned to unlace his boots. When he was done, he joined her in the bed, skin warm and body firm against her own. He wrapped his arms about her, and nuzzled against her ear.

“I’m here,” he said, barely a whisper, and something in her eased. “You don’t have to be frightened anymore. Sleep…” She closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of him, and then started when there was a suddenly shift of weight. Angus had gotten up on the bed and had flopped down by their feet alongside her legs. She laughed, Alistair shook his head, and then sighed. “We’re both here,” he corrected in his soft smiling voice. And then he pulled her back close against him. 

And she did sleep there, then. For the first time in a long time they shared a bed and only slept. They had not really done that since Orzammar, and it filled the gaps they had been missing. She was acutely aware of all of him, all along her own body, and the heat that swelled across them both as he kept her warm and safe.

She slept so well she did not even wake with the dawn. It was much later, late morning and almost time for lunch, when she finally stirred, and he was still beside her, sleeping just as much as she, arm still thrown across her.

There was a soft knock on the door and then it opened, and Eideann froze at the sight of the elven handmaid staring at her.

“Your Ladyship…I…” Alistair sat up, covers tumbling to his waist, and peered at her blearily. The maid – blessed are the servants who stand strong and do not falter – blushed slightly and averted her eyes. “Your Majesty,” she recovered, tacking him on the end. Alistair’s mouth twisted a little at the title, and Eideann quieted him with a hand on his leg beneath the covers. The elven servant kept her eyes averted. “His Grace the Arl needs to see you immediately. He…he is in his study.” She stepped back then, closing the door, and Eideann noticed the girl had left a jug of water beside the doorframe on the floor for her to wash. She sighed, and sat up herself, holding the covers about herself for some semblance of modesty, and looked to Alistair.

“We had best not keep him waiting,” Alistair said softly. “He does not usually use the word immediately. It must be something important.” He frowned and then leaned into her, pulling their foreheads together. “I’m glad you slept, though, love.” She smiled slightly and felt a pang of disappointment when he pulled away and rose. 

She did allow herself the pleasure of considering the hard planes of his body and soft curves of his backside before he bent to pull on his Warden leggings and shrugged into his tunic. Maker, they would need to get him some different clothes.

And then she was up as well, mussing her hair until it fell right in the mirror atop the washstand and pulling on her own leggings and tunic. 

They went together back down the hall. 

The moment Eideann opened the door she realized something was amiss. There was a woman there, black hair caught up in the delicate coif of noble handmaidens, a few strands escaping about her face, eyes a deep brown in the light. She was elven, but raised high, and she looked very concerned. She wore a gown of soft pink satin belted about her waist in the fashion of noble ladies of late.

“Ah, Warden” Arl Eamon said softly, a note of warning in his voice. She was no friend then, it appeared, this elf maiden. Eideann considered them both warily, and Eamon crossed to greet them, nodding to Alistair and kissing Eideann’s hand. Very uncharacteristic if such appearances were to be upheld then. “I trust you’ve made yourself comfortable?”

“Yes,” Eideann said softly. “Very nice.” Meaningless chatter to put them into a state of defense.

“Good. Because it’s likely to be your last rest for a long time,” Eamon said, and motioned to the woman. “This is Erlina. She – ”

“I am Queen Anora’s handmaiden,” the woman said curtly. Her accent was Orlesian. Eideann considered her with wary eyes. Odd that Loghain’s daughter would have an Orlesian confidante. “She sent me here to ask for your help.” Eideann’s guard immediately went up, and some of it appeared to have been picked up by Alistair, because he crossed his arms beside her and grimaced. 

“Why would Anora ask us for help?” Eideann asked suspiciously. Erlina pursed her lips a moment, then drew a short, deep breath.

“The Queen, she is in a difficult position,” she said quietly. “She loved her husband, no? And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think?” Eideann narrowed her eyes but nodded for her to continue, and so Erlina shook her head angrily. “She worries, no? But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her not to trouble herself.”

Ah, but they both of then knew it was not so simple. It was too convenient, happening now of all times, this story meant to turn them to her side, the innocent act of being caught unawares. There was no way that Anora, who claimed to have ruled the Kingdom for Cailin for five years, had succumbed so easily, or indeed could claim she had no knowledge of the events that led to that point. She thought of the letters she had retrieved from Ostagar, buried in Cailin’s trunk, and thought of the argument she had overheard with Duncan that night. If Loghain had known of Cailin’s plans to ally himself to Celene, Anora surely did as well. The lie was hidden in plain sight for all to see.

“I’m still not seeing where our help comes in,” she said quietly. Erlina’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her brows lowered, thin and pretty and made for courtly moues of disapproval, clearly.

“My Queen suspects she cannot trust her father. And Loghain, he is very subtle, no?” No. He wasn’t. “But Rendon Howe, he is privy to all the secrets and…not so subtle.” Actually, Howe was very subtle, far more so than Loghain. This woman had her facts backwards, and if she were telling the tale to anyone else, perhaps it would have fooled them. But Eideann simply crossed her arms. “So she goes to Howe,” Erlina said shortly. “A visit from the Queen to the new Arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers.” Eideann turned away, leaning her hands on Arl Eamon’s desk to think. She knew Erlina was watching, waiting for the expected reply, but she was not prepared to give it just yet. Instead, she shook her head and stared up at the wall.

“Howe,” she said, doing her best to control her tone, “is a lunatic.”

“He calls her every sort of name!” Erlina said behind her. “Traitor being the kindest. And locks her in a guest room.” 

Unless Loghain had usurped her completely and with Arl Howe’s knowledge, the Queen of the realm could not be a traitor. But that was not the only thing that sounded off. Even a Queen was not locked in a guest room to be held prisoner. Not if she was a real prisoner. Howe dealt in the business of breaking people. He did that any way he could. A guest room would not break Anora Mac Tir. 

“What does this have to do with me?” Eideann asks softly, looking about. Erlina looked a little surprised, and Eamon and Alistair were watching the exchange with discomfort. The elven maid met her gaze.

“I think her life is in danger,” she finally replied. “I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.” 

Eideann peered at the woman, who never once broke eye contact, and then sighed. Arl Howe was known for making his enemies disappear, and it sounded like the sort of plot he may try to pull off. And yet there was another thing that bothered her about it. 

After a night of sleep, her mind was sharp, she saw the cracks in the story. If the Queen were dead, the Landsmeet would be left to declare for Alistair alone, as Maric’s son. The competition was between them, not Eamon and Loghain. Anora’s death would do no one any favors. It certainly rang true she would be a better ally to them dead, but at the same time not in the way Erlina was implying. A dead Queen blamed on Eamon would do damage to Eamon, surely. But a dead Queen blamed on Eideann Cousland would be far worse.

She had to assume that there was a bigger plot than this. If it was a story, then it was a story, but one she had to involve herself in all the same. The trap was set, and she had already sprung it. She had no choices now.

In this, at least, someone had played her well: whether it be Arl Howe or Anora herself. Or maybe even both. 

A guest room? She decided it was both.

She sighed.

“We have to get her out of there,” she finally said, firmly. The clumsiness in the details aside, it was still a very real threat, and she was tired of dancing around the threats of Arl Howe anyway.

“Yes, that is what she hoped you would say,” Erlina said, looking relieved. 

“We may have no choice but to trust Anora,” Eamon agreed, seeing the trap that had been set already. “The Queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeded on pinning her death on me…” His was not the good name she was worried about. Eideann decided that this was Anora showing her hand at last, and she was wary of trusting anyone in Denerim, especially the daughter of their enemy. After all, Loghain was driven towards a singleminded goal, determined and fierce. Even if he did not want power, he had seized it, because he truly believed himself in the right, and the damage done in his name had fundamentally altered Ferelden. His daughter’s charm came from her mother, Lady Celia, who had become Teyrna after a lifetime of making and selling cabinets. 

So many places to hide the skeletons. So many ways to sell your wares. Oh Anora was politically minded, that was not in question. But she did not have the lifetime of training Eideann herself had had, and she was acting now in some nebulous fashion. 

She may have led the kingdom for Cailin, that much may be true. But he had done some leading of his own, if his letters to Celene and the offer of an alliance were anything to be made of. Cailin and Anora had done well because they ruled together, pairing Mac Tir ruthlessness and perseverance with the glory and likeability of the Theirin name. Anora did not have the gentleness to rule alone.

And it did not matter. If they did not act, Ferelden itself could topple under the weight of these ridiculous plans.

“You’re right,” Eideann sighed, glancing Alistair. “We have to help.” He met her gaze somberly, reading her a little and recognizing when she had just been through all the alternatives in her head. He had gotten good at sensing that in her now. He just gave her a nod.

“I have some uniforms,” Erlina said, “secreted away in a caravan near the Arl’s estate. Arl Howe hired so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir. I will show you to the servant’s entrance. We must slip in and out with my Queen before anyone is the wiser. I will go ahead to Howe’s estate. Meet me there as soon as you can.” She dropped a small bow to them all, then swept out hurriedly. Eideann watched her go with narrow eyes, then glanced to Eamon with a grim expression. He met it, the look mirrored in his eyes. 

“Be careful in there, Lady Cousland.” Alistair grimaced.

“I don’t like this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Eideann sighed, turning away. He followed her out. At least there was this: Anora, knowingly or not, had finally given her a chance to see her own business settled. That had probably been part of the plan all along, and yet she did not care. 

She wanted that chance. 

She did not strap on her Warden armor, leaving it instead on the rack. She did not take her Warden swords either, though Alistair returned with Duncan’s in his hand, as plain as she in all other ways. Instead, she finally reached into her trunk and pulled forth the Cousland Blade.

“Take Maric’s,” Alistair said softly behind her as she hesitated over it. His voice was like a beacon of light shining in the darkness. She hefted it, and then strapped it on. Cousland Duty and the King’s Justice, wielded together as one. 

She met his eyes and he gazed back, all the words that might have been spoken lost between them in that instant. And then at last he nodded.

She took Zevran, who had never let her down and had probably been in the estate before when running the job against Arl Urien, and Leliana. She would have asked for Wynne, but the old woman was a mage, and a mage in Arl Howe’s estate seemed a dangerous risk. They needed warriors who could fight with swords or slip away unnoticed. They needed humans and elves to blend in. 

Zevran’s eyes were fierce when he looked to her, and there was a justice in his gaze to. Leliana just nodded, silent and deadly, all vestiges of the Chantry Sister gone from her eyes in that moment. She strung the bow from Marjolaine’s and the gold inlay glittered in the streaming sunlight.

“I know the estate,” she said quietly, her voice dark and cold. “It was where they held me, after Marjolaine’s betrayal.” Eideann nodded, jaw set and thanked the woman for coming along.

The Arl of Denerim’s Estate was located in the Palace District, south of the Landsmeet Palace along a block of mansions dedicated to the most noble of families. Erlina, true to her word, was waiting for them when they arrived, and pulled them towards a cart in a small alleyway between two manses, eyes furtive and concerned. 

There was a crowd gathered outside the front of the estate, crying about bills unpaid. Rendon Howe had driven the estate into arrears, it appeared. Eideann narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

The armor Erlina had was not the bronze of the Howe’s, which she knew the Arl was using for his personal guard. It was the more generic steel, emblazoned with the green and gold shield of the Kendells, the three diamonds of the Teyrnirs and a green Chantry sunburst clear and bright in fresh paint. Eideann slipped into hers, feeling uncomfortable in full chain, and then eyed up the helm Erlina pressed into her hands, shaking her head.

It was too large, but she had no other choice. She settled it on her head, immediately feeling hot and sticky, and fastened her blades at her back, sheathes beneath the green linen cloak of the Arl of Denerim’s household. 

It would have to do. But the moment she had the chance, she was ridding herself of the helmet. The disguises would not keep forever. 

“The servant’s entrance,” Erlina told them as she helped them fasten the straps of the armor and settle everything in place, “is on the other side of the house. We will have to slip past this crowd to reach it. We will have to be very careful.” Her eyes were cool. “Arl Howe is inside.” Eideann felt a ripple of something…desire? Hate? Some mix of the two? And she nodded.

But she had no intention of being careful at that point. She planned to kill every Howe man she saw, and then finished the job with _him_ just as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

They slipped silently into the yards, circling about the house and past the stables, acting for all the world as if they were meant to be there. Erlina looked nervous, always checking back behind her in case they were followed, and Eideann kept a close eye on her, because she did not trust the maid either. No doubt she had good intentions, but she had been sent by Anora. She had been there in those rooms, and escaped perfectly easily when the Queen supposedly could not. She was not an ally here. Just a resource. Angus at her side was an ally.

The elf stopped them near a small garden, and motioned for them to duck into a small walled enclosure where a fountain bubbled away merrily, Andraste beseeching the Maker, water flowing from her outstretched hands. Eideann considered the fountain, and Erlina looked between them all.

“I can distract the guards,” she said nervously. “You must move quickly. My Lady does not have much time. These two know who is allowed to come and go. They will not be fooled, but the uniforms should work on most of those inside. I will lure them into the courtyard. Wait here.” She slipped away, and Eideann crossed her arms to wait. 

“The Arl used to come here in the winter when I was small,” Alistair said suddenly, quietly, considering the fountain of Andraste. “I, uh…slept with the hounds.” Eideann looked to him and he looked away. She shook her head.

“You still do if Angus counts,” she told him with a soft smile and he grinned.

“Some things never change,” he agreed. Then his smile faded. “Leliana? Are you alright?”

“It was here,” the bard said softly. “Here in this garden where Marjolaine betrayed me. We had…gone to undo a mistake. I had insisted. She…sold me out. The papers, altered by her hand…we were supposed to leave them here.” Eideann reached to put a hand on the woman’s arm, gazing at her through the slits in the helmet. 

“No one enjoys being back here,” she said softly. “But we are the strong ones now, and Marjolaine is dead while you survive.” 

“There are dungeons below,” Leliana replied, “and they are not pleasant.” Eideann considered that a moment, then nodded.

“Thank you for being here, Leliana,” she said.

And then Erlina gave a cry, starting some commotion, and there was the sound of running. Eideann looked up, then nodded.

“Time to go,” she said darkly, and they slipped across the garden and through the door. A few moments later, Erlina joined them, panting from the running. She considered them all, then sighed.

“You must be careful now,” she said simply. “The servants, they will not look closely at anyone in uniform. All the guards are alike to a cook, no? But you should not draw attention to yourself. Most of the guards are new. They will not know you for a stranger at a glance. It’s best you keep your distance from all of them and try to blend in.” Eideann adjusted her gauntlets and grimaced.

“Where’s Anora?” she asked and the servant sniffed.

“She is in a guest room off the main hall,” she replied. “Andraste guide us.”

Andraste didn’t care either way. She’d had her hands in a pot of her holiness’s remains and it had not significantly altered her life one bit. No, this was on them alone.

Erlina led them carefully, and they followed at a distance. Eideann focused on the noise around them, trying to learn anything she could. She knew Zevran’s group had been responsible for the assassination of Arl Urien, but his son, Vaughan, should have been next, and his absence was conspicuous. There were rumors of an Uprising, however, and she had seen the portcullises blocking the Alienage from the Market District and the Palace District. Something else was at work, and she wanted to know what. 

She should have paid more attention earlier.

There were cooks in the kitchen, digging through shelves that lay mostly bare. The sight would have made poor Nan have a heart attack.

“This kitchen is a disgrace,” one muttered. “How did the old Arl’s servants ever cook anything in here?”

“No one ever said the Kendalls had any sense,” another replied. “Poison in the larder? Maker’s breath…”

“For Andraste’s sake,” a third replied, graying hair cropped short. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” Was Vaughan dead then? She filed the information away. 

“This roast is going to be charred on one side.”

“There’s no help for it,” the elderly woman said. “We’ll just trim it and feed the scraps to the dogs.” If anyone found Angus strange, she had no indication of it.

Listening to the servants made it easier to stay focused. She really just wanted to do damage and wreak havoc, but until Anora was found that was a bad idea. If Anora was killed because she showed her hands too soon, Eamon would take the fall, and Loghain would keep the throne for himself. So she schooled herself to calm, trying to work on the little puzzles in the back of her mind. There was time yet. She was here.

She had invaded his place. 

“I hope it’s not mutton again. Three nights in a row…” 

“For all we know,” a guard coming down the hall towards them was grumbling to his fellow, “it’s _not_ mutton.” The one beside him scoffed. “Howe’s too cheap to buy it,” the first one insisted. “Cook’s probably roasting the elves that broke in here.” Eideann was glad that even his own new hires disliked him. And elves who had broken in? She considered the rumors of an uprising and wondered.

It was interesting as well to note how Howe had apparently bankrupted the Denerim estate. After all, if he could not pay his workers and would not even buy mutton available across Ferelden, it was not merely a choice on his part. Even Rendon Howe knew the worth of keeping the masses sated. 

They passed through the servant’s wing without incident, and finally into a small chamber off the main hall, where a number of guards were gathered playing cards. Eideann remembered how the guardsmen in Highever would sit about playing when they were off duty, and she recognized that simplicity here. Until, at least, they spoke. 

“It’s bad luck living in a house where the whole family got killed. I say Howe ought to the level the thing and build a new one,” one said firmly. Another gave him a wry grin.

“He’d have to knock down everyplace he owns then,” was the reply, and the others laughed. Eideann felt her heart ache.

“When did you get back from Highever?” She almost stopped walking, except Alistair pushed her onward, not allowing her to stop. Her breathing had stopped, and her heart was pounding.

“You try spending a few nights in a castle full of corpses sometime. Maker’s breath, and the village.” What had happened to the village? She felt panic rising within her and tried to turn, but Alistair continued to nudge her on, determined. She should have been grateful, but there was nothing else in her mind but Highever then. 

Highever had always been loyal to the Couslands. What had Howe done to the village? 

“If you could kill men by hating them,” another guard said sharply, “we’d all be in our graves now.” She let out a rasping breath, looking away. Highever was still hers, still Cousland. Those people were there and fighting. She dared to hope then.

Today was the day she won it all back for them. 

The crossed a carpeted front hall and Erlina ushered them towards a door that shone with magic. Alistair stared at it a moment, then shook his head.

“Can’t break it,” he said simply, so Eideann sighed. 

“The Wardens are here, my Lady!” Erlina called softly through the door.

“Thank. The. Maker.” Anora’s voice was soft and subtle, gentle like cool summer winds, and then a touch of steel. “I would greet you properly,” she called, “but I am afraid we’ve had a setback.” Eideann eyed up the magical wards on the door with distaste. 

“How do I know,” she asked after a moment, “you’re really Queen Anora?” She did actually believe it _was_ her, but there was still a trap there, somewhere. And with wards on the door, she was almost positive of it now. 

“How am I supposed to answer that?” Anora snapped curtly through the door, voice muffled a little by the wards. “Shall I try to shove my crown under the door? Do you think the royal family has a secret knock?” Even if it did, Eideann would not know it, and Alistair who was the royal family, definitely would not, so she doubted that one was true. She sighed and gave her some credit for the quick-tempered anger, since it was refreshing. But it did not change the facts. Their rescue was not entirely the rescue it appeared to be. “My host,” Anora declared airily, “was not content with leaving me under heavy guard. He’s sealed the door by magic.” Well she knew that much already. 

“Great,” Eideann sighed, turning and gazing back out the way they had come. “Now what?” She did not even have a mage to try and break it. She regretted for a moment not bringing Wynne along. 

“We must get her out of there!” Erlina said sharply, eyes wide, staring at the wards. 

“Don’t panic, Erlina!” Anora said sharply. “Find the mage who cast the spell. He’ll most likely be at Howe’s side.”

“Well, so much for secrecy,” Eideann said quietly, but inside she was glad. She _wanted_ to bring that bastard down, and behind the door the Queen was kept safe until the mage was dead. She could spill all the blood she wanted now.

“If he didn’t know you were here by now,” Anora said coolly, “he soon will.”

“Good,” Eideann said firmly. “I wanted to see Howe anyway.” She turned away, leaving the Queen to converse with air, and pulled the helmet from her head, letting it clatter to the floor. She could breathe again, and she could see. 

“Teyrn Howe will probably be in his rooms,” Erlina said, catching her at the door.

“He is _not_ a Teyrn,” Eideann shot back in a low hiss. Erlina stammered, then nodded. Leliana stepped forward, helmet gone as well, and narrowed her eyes.

“Those rooms are at the end of the hall on the left,” she told Eideann coolly. Eideann nodded and took off down the hall. She hoped he was there so she could murder him in his sleep like he had done Oriana and Oren and Lady Landra.

But the other part of her wanted him to beg first. 

“Howe,” she snarled to Zevran, Leliana, and Alistair, “is mine.” As if there could be any doubt.

The Arl’s chambers were, sadly, empty, and Eideann considered them with disdain. Leliana immediately set about bard business, rifling through the papers in his desk and chests, until finally she rose, something in her hands, and looked up to Eideann and Alistair.

“Ciphered,” she said, handing them to Eideann. “Stamped with the Grey Warden seal.” The wax was silver, shining in the light from the window. Alistair looked at the papers over her shoulder, but shook his head. “I shall see if I can work it out when we return to Arl Eamon’s estate,” Leliana assured him and he nodded. Eideann considered the ciphered papers a moment, then tucked them away inside her armor.

There was a door at the end of the chambers, and Leliana eyed it up darkly.

“It goes to the dungeon,” she told them. Eideann narrowed her eyes. Some part of her was entirely unsurprised to find out that Arl Howe’s bedchamber went to the dungeon. Especially given all she knew of him now.

She crept down the steps, weapons drawn, until the floor leveled out and a guard standing before a cell, startled by her presence, turned to stare with a look of shock on his face.

“What are you - ?!” He never got to finish his sentence. Arms from within the cell. They caught the guard in a headlock, pulling him back tightly against the bars, and then twisted, so violently, that the snap of his neck echoed about the chamber. The guard’s body slipped, and the hands found his keys at his belt. The guard was dragged inside, and Eideann heard the sounds of someone dressing in the darkness.

The prisoner emerged then, keys still in his hands, and considered them with soft blue eyes the color of the sky. Angus growled low in his throat. 

“I thank you for creating such a distraction, stranger,” he quietly, gentlemanly almost, and Angus fell silent, panting softly. “Do you think you could – ” He froze, and was staring over her shoulder now. “Alistair? Is that you?” Eideann looked between them, blades held tight in her hands, and recognition dawned in Alistair’s eyes slowly.

“I do know you. You were at my Joining,” he finally said. “He’s one of us. A Warden from Orlais. Jader, I think.” Eideann glanced back to the man who was nodding.

“I am Riordan,” he introduced himself. “Senior Warden of Jader, but born and bred in Highever and glad to be home.” Highever. Like Duncan. Like her. Apparently Highever made good stock for Wardens. Eideann took a step forward, pulling the papers free.

“Are these yours?” she asked hurriedly, and Riordan’s face expressed relief.

“Yes, these are my records,” he said, taking them from her. “The names of the dead at Ostagar, Duncan’s reports, copies of the Joining Ritual.” 

“The Joining Ritual?” Eideann glanced to Alistair, then back. “Can you induct new Wardens then?” Perhaps it was not too late? Alistair had the chalice still, rescued from Ostagar when they had gone back in the winter. 

“Would that I could,” Riordan sighed, shaking his head. “For the Joining to work we need not only fresh darkspawn blood but also a drop from an Archdemon. Ferelden’s supply should have been in the compound here in Denerim, but I imagine Loghain either confiscated or destroyed it.” Eideann bit back a curse, sinking back a little. Three Wardens was better than two, but three did not defeat a Blight. 

“The Joining’s chance of success is slim anyway,” Riordan said with a sigh. “Loghain has already done far worse to the Wardens than cutting us off from recruitment. And from the rumors flying through Denerim, removing him from the throne is already your plan, no?” Until then, she had not realized how much it troubled her that there were no other Wardens to advise her on their decisions or assist in their efforts against the Blight. But it _had_ troubled her, she realized now. Even the presence of one Senior Warden sent a wash of relief over her. She nodded, and he smiled slightly at her fierce gaze.

“Where’s Howe?” she asked, turning to the matter at hand. 

“I saw him going to the dungeons,” Riordan said quietly. She nodded, and considered asking him more, but he had been in a cell there alone, and whatever answers he had to give he could not do so there. If he had come from Orlais, it was obvious he had been spared Ostagar, but the cost seemed significant all the same. 

“How did Howe capture you?” she asked him quietly, and he gave a mirthless chuckle.

“With an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice,” he explained darkly. “I was sent when we received no word from King Cailin as to the outcome at Ostagar. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais and their support troops to join him, then…nothing. We had two hundred Wardens and two dozen divisions of cavalry. The first we heard of Loghain’s edict was when everyone was turned back at the border. That was when the rumor reached us that the Wardens were being blamed for the massacre. I was fool enough to think Loghain didn’t yet know who I was.” Two hundred Wardens. The number was staggering. She drew a shaking breath. So many people she could not have. 

“The Archdemon is nearly here! Will we have no help?” Eideann asked and he shook his head. 

“The other Wardens won’t risk their strength fighting Ferelden’s civil war. If they spend themselves against Loghain, there is truly no hope.” Eideann felt her heart drop and she closed her eyes a moment. “They recall accounts of the first Blight, how many cities fell. If Ferelden is too foolish to save itself, at least we’ll be ready when the Archdemon leads its forces further.” Alistair made a low noise, like he wanted to speak but did not have the words, and Eideann looked up, angry, to glare at Riordan. He just shook his head, smiling slightly. “Besides, I hear you haven’t been doing badly at raising an army yourself, Warden-Commander Cousland.” So he knew of her then, of who she was. She sighed and he nodded. “I will send a message as soon as we are gone from this place,” he told her, a promise in his voice. Then he sighed. “I wouldn’t me much use to you in my current condition,” he told her, “so you must go on alone. If you’ll pardon me, I’ve a sudden desire to breathe some fresh air.” She nodded and he gave her a bow, fist to chest. “Lady Cousland, Alistair. It is good to be home. I wish you luck.” And he turned back the way they had come, climbing the steps. Eideann grimaced, then looked towards the final staircase leading to the dungeon. Better at least one Warden escape the trap set for them, at least. 

She took the steps. 

There were more guards at the bottom, the sort who were seasoned watchmen in Howe colors. They were definitely the sort who had been at Highever. Eideann could see the darkness in their eyes. 

“Anyone comes down here without Howe’s say-so, we get to do what we like with them,” the first said, drawing close to her. She felt Alistair stiffen at her back, armor straps creaking. “Looks like we have some entertainment, lads.” 

Alistair need not have worried. Eideann reached around the guard’s neck and then threw him over. The Cousland Blade slid from its sheath and she brought it round effortlessly. The man’s head hit the floor and rolled. 

“For Highever,” she told his sightless face in a voice as cold as ice and turned to the next. 

It became a ritual then. Each guard she fell, each death, came with its own name. One by one, man by man, she made them pay for all the blood in blood.

_Vengeance._

Howe’s prisoner count did not end with Anora and Riordan. As they moved through the dank cells, Leliana leading them with purpose and cold anger in her eyes, they encountered others locked away. And they were the sort of prisoners Eideann could only dream of rescuing. 

The first was tied to the rack, clad only in his smalls. Eideann had cut through the torturers in the room, and Leliana and Zevran hurried to untie him. He was nobility, though obviously bearing the signs of his ill treatment. He rubbed at his chafed wrists and slowly forced himself to rise.

“Was this supposed to be a lesson?” he demanded, voice raspy with thirst. “Did my father think it funny to leave me so long before sending you?!” Eideann gave him a flat look.

“Unless your father is Arl Eamon, he did not send me,” she told him curtly. But given he had been tortured, she allowed him his lack of manners. His face fell.

“You move in august company, stranger,” he told her quietly. “I am Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard of Dragons Peak.” The one who had known her father, who had thought it odd that all of Cailin’s advisors were dropping like flies. “If you aren’t one of our soldiers, pray tell me, who should I be thanking for my rescue?” It was the Blight, and that was the focus, but she knew too an opportunity and she settled on the truth.

“I am Teyrna Eideann Cousland, Warden-Commander of Ferelden,” she said softly. He gave a slight bow of head, taken aback, and shook his head.

“Then I have no questions about why you would come, my Lady Commander,” he said. “Your kind have lost the most here.” It was a breath of fresh air to hear the words from a lord’s son after so many lies. “If my father sent no one after me,” Oswyn said quietly, “I can only imagine he does not yet know the true colors of the snakes he is allied with. I must tell him, but if you ask, I am certain he would offer you any reward you might ask, Lady Cousland.”

“Will your father side against Loghain in the Landsmeet?” she said. Bann Sighard was already suspicious. The word of his son would make him throw his weight against Loghain, and all those who trusted his good word. 

“So there is a Landsmeet after all,” Oswyn breathed, shaking his head. Leliana had found him a rough-spun tunic buried in a chest and draped it about his shoulders. He thanked her quietly, then his eyes went hard. “I swear if there is _any_ forum to speak out against Loghain, my father will be there.” That promise made, Eideann let him flee. If he could reach Sighard, that could change everything.

The other occupants in that chamber were dead, a handful of elves and some of Arl Urien’s servants and household left to rot. How many of Ferelden’s people had felt the impact of his ambition? How many of the noble families and their freeholders had Howe and Loghain _not_ maimed or murdered. The cold fire rose within her again.

The next room was mostly cells, but only two were occupied. Eideann went to the first holding an old man with an overgrown beard and mad eyes, as Leliana and Zevran sprung the locks on both cells. 

“They sounded the horns for retreat,” one man was muttering softly to himself, unseeing. “Do you hear the dogs howling? The horns sounded and then there were screams. We rode and they screamed and screamed.” The door swung open and Eideann sheathed her blades, stepping towards the man and taking him by the shoulders.

“Shh,” she said, guiding him out. “It’s alright.”

“Mother, can you smell all the blood?” he wept, clinging to her. “They said it was only darkspawn, but we left _them_ too. They died, and we left them. And the swamp. The Witch! The Witch!” Alistair exchanged looks with her, and they both know what he was speaking of. 

Ostagar, the horns, the mabari, the screams, the darkspawn, the ghouls, and Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds. 

They had been those left behind to die. She forced the man to meet her eyes.

“You are safe now,” she told him quietly. “Wait here a moment.” He huddled back against the wall in tears, and Zevran called to her from the next door along. She left the soldier with Alistair and Leliana and went to his side. 

The prisoner there was an elf, red hair short and scruffy, eyes tired. Zevran opened the door and he stared at them blearily.

“What month is it?” the elf asked quietly. “Are you some enemy of Arl Urien’s? Please.” His voice was hard. “I feel like I’ve spent half my life down here.” Eideann exchanged a glance with Zevran, then drew a breath.

“Why were you imprisoned here?” she asked him quietly.

“The Arl’s son,” he said despairingly. “He abducted my bride on our wedding day. She was screaming…and he was laughing…and I charged at him. I…I woke up here.” Eideann felt sick, but she forced herself to continue to look at the elf instead of closing her eyes and forcing the images away. “I don’t know if she’s even still alive,” he told her quietly, voice haunted. 

“Arl Urien died months ago,” Eideann said, stepping back so he could emerge from the cell. 

“Dead?” The elf looked a little panicked. “Then who’s ruling? His son Vaughan struck me down. People were so angry, they were thinking of petitioning the king.” Eideann glanced to Alistair who was listening somberly a few paces away. He just _had_ petitioned the king, or at least the prince anyway.

“King Cailin is dead as well,” she said softly, filling in the details. He needed to at least know the details before he faced Denerim again, or he’d be eaten alive on the streets. “Loghain rules in his place for the moment.”

“There have been so many changes,” the boy murmured, and then he gritted his teeth. “I…I need to get home.”

“The Alienage is sealed off,” Eideann told him. He shook his head.

“Then where can I go?”

“The Chantry,” she told him earnestly, and Leliana nodded in silence. She motioned to the soldier who was still weeping on the floor. “This man is a veteran of the battle at Ostagar where King Cailin was killed. Can you see he gets there safely?” The elf considered him a moment, then nodded.

“Yes. I…thank you for your aid, stranger,” he muttered. “I wish I had more than gratitude to offer.”

“You owe me nothing,” Eideann said, shaking her head. Instead he had given her one of the pieces to the endless puzzle she was filling in within her head. And he had solidified something within her. 

An uprising over abuses under Arl Urien’s son under Anora’s watch. That would change. She would make it change. She had decided, and she would make it so.

With the cages sprung and the prisoners escaping, Eideann led her group out of the chamber, and further down the hall. There were only a few rooms left, and those she cleared with the brutal efficiency of cold rage. The Cousland Blade and Maric’s dragonbone sword dripped blood in her wake as she made her way through the halls. Retribution and Justice stained red.

And then there was only one room left, one final chamber. 

And she knew already what she would find inside.

She took a moment, drawing a breath, closing her eyes and thinking of Highever, of Fergus and Oriana, Oren, Nan, Ser Gilmore, her mother, her father. 

And then she kicked in the door.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann finally confronts Rendon Howe; the trap set for the Grey Wardens is sprung; Eideann and Alistair find themselves prisoners in Fort Drakon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence (a lot, and explicit in some parts); some mentions of sex
> 
> Comments always welcome.

She remembered that sneer. It hovered in her nightmares and drew from her the poison of cruelty and loss. And she remembered those eyes, cold and angry. Eideann stepped into the room, meeting those eyes, fingers wrapped so tight on the swordhilts she could hardly feel them.

“Well, look here,” Howe said, his voice a cold drawl. “Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire, all grown up and still playing the man.” She gave a wild laugh and he shook his head, crossing his arms. “I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten. I never thought you fool enough to turn up here.” 

That was her confirmation, that it was indeed a trap, but she did not care about that. Not anymore. The world had shrunk to them in that room and those standing opposed her. He grinned, teeth shining like jaws in the torchlight.

“But then again,” he laughed softly, “I never thought you’d live either.” 

Oh the cruelty in that statement. Oren’s eyes transfixed, Oriana dead over her son, dying to save him, failing. Her father’s blood beneath her hands, staining her with the debt of a life to extract from Howe. Rory Gilmore, wounded and desperate, throwing his life away to save hers. Her mother, eyes like ice, rising with a bow in her hand.

“Glad to disappoint you,” she said quietly. “It won’t be the last time.” Or maybe it would be. She hoped it would not.

The last time he had been wearing that armor he had stood beside her father in the Great Hall of Highever Castle, trying to wed her to his son. She hated him.

“Is this about your family?” he jeered, circling about her in an arc. “Still? But I’ve done so much more than wipe your name from Ferelden’s memory. And what’s left.” His eyes scanned her. “A sad husk of a daughter, likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads.” He gave another laugh. “Even the Wardens are gone. You’re the last of nothing. This is pointless. You’ve already lost.”

She pictured him in the Deep Roads standing against ogres and broodmothers, there on the bridge of Bownammar with Urthemiel above him, and smiled. In her head an orgre bites off his head. She fixed him with a proud look.

He could not hurt her now. Not ever again. With Amaranthine, Denerim, and Highever in his grip, Rendon Howe is the most powerful man in Ferelden except Loghain himself, and he controls almost an entire sea border. She intended to take every inch of it back piece by piece, cut by cut, until it was paid for in body parts. 

“I know your game, Howe,” she said, her voice quietly and calm. She could hear Bryce Cousland’s voice in her own, and drew the strength from it to carry on. “No shadows, no lies. Just you and me.” His smile slipped and he glared at her, anger twitching a muscle at the corner of his mouth.

“There it is,” he spat. “Right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that ever held me down.” His eyes were like flint. “It would appear you _have_ made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud.” 

“He’ll be prouder still when this blade runs red with Howe blood again,” she said softly, a note of ferocity in her voice. He grinned, then turned about, hefting his waraxe and rubbing his thumb along the silverite blade. 

“I, however, want you dead more than ever,” he said frankly.

“Then this should be a simple fight,” she told him. 

He has underestimated her. He thought he could face her down, but he could not. She had slain dragons, broodmothers, and monsters, and would fight another before it was done. He was just a man, and hardly even that. He could not kill the last Cousland.

Angus, at her feet, gave a sharp bark. 

Their blades clashed and she felt the hot stench of his breath on her face as he threw his weight on her. She forced him back and they circled again. Once more the blades arced, too fast to see, blurs of light between them, and once more they clashed again. Eideann tore away and turned, slashing across with Maric’s sword even as her own came up from beneath. 

Arl Howe’s axe blocked Maric’s blade, and his knife knocked her blade aside, as he stepped within her guard.

She reacted without thinking, letting the dance control her steps. Her leg came up, fast and hard, and he staggered backward with a hiss before rising again and spitting at her. She ducked another blow and then hammered him down into another stalemate before breaking away and spinning about, panting from exertion. 

“Did he tell you he killed my father?” Howe spat through his rage. “When the Couslands took Harper’s Ford, he strung him up to dance on the gallows before all the commoners. Highever was once ours, and was stolen by the Couslands.”

“Conobar Elstan was from a branch family,” Eideann shot back. “When he died, the Bann was passed to Samir Cousland, and rightly so, and that was in the Towers Age. It was never _yours_.” She brought her blades up. “And your father was a treasonous bastard who was killed for opposing King Maric and the Rebel Queen Moira in the Occupation. Even your uncle knew that.” 

Their blades clashed again.

“Do you really believe that the weight of history heals a wound like that?” he hissed into her face, eyes rimmed red with fury. “I went to war at your father’s side, to slay Orlesians and win back the respect _he_ stole from my father. I was one of only fifty men to return from White River. And while your mother and father were off fucking on the Mistral and being hailed as heroes, I married Elaine Bryland, some half Orlesian, part Free Marcher bitch, just so I could survive. It was _mine_. And you and your family stole everything. _Ruined_ everything.” He pulled free and her swords came up, just barely scraping his leather armor as he moved out of the way.

“You’ll pay in blood for what you’ve done,” she spat and he wheeled, circling, axe and dagger ready again.

“Isn’t that precious,” he sneered. “Is this where I lament the monster I helped create? You’re still so very new to this. Shall I show you how it’s done?” She came at him and this time he rebuffed her attack, forcing her back a few steps. She stared him down, jaw clenched, and felt the sweat on the palms of her hands inside the gauntlets. The heavy armor was slowing her down. She crossed her swords until she held both in one hand and tore the first glove free with her teeth, then did the same with the second. They fell to the ground at her feet, and she kicked them away. Her fingers met the cool metal of the hilts and she felt them like they were a part of her, the ring of metal vibrating all the way through her. He shook his head wth a cold sneer.

“I made your mother kiss my feet as she died,” he told her. “It was the last thing your father ever saw. Meet my blade and try to change _that_.” Eideann felt pain well up inside her, and tears cloud her vision, and she barely blocked his other parry before forcing him back with a sharp cry of hate, rage, and effort. He laughed and stepped back, but she followed it up. His blades caught her side, rebounding from the armor, and she did not care. Another clipped the side of her face, and she hissed, turning her face away, but did not stop.

He stepped back, and she was on him in a moment, knocking him down, casting aside Maric’s blade. The King’s Justice had no more place in that fight.

A smite shook the stone beneath them as the mage tried to take action and Alistair stepped in, but no one interrupted her fight. She could hear screams as the other Howe men were felled, but still she did not stop. She forced him back, step by step by step, all finesse gone, just hard and fast and heavy and angry. And he lunged at her.

She brought the Cousland sword up to parry his block, knocking his dagger from his hand and sending it flying. And then they were armed only with her sword and his axe, Cousland Blade against Howe Blade.

And the Cousland Blade won.

She kicked, knocking him off balance and he twisted to get clear, but she was ready. Her blade went right through the leathers, puncturing a hole in the center of his armor, and all the way through to the other side. She drew it out quickly and rammed it home again, and then again, and again, and finally let him fall to the floor at her feet. She was panting, anger spilling wet and hot from her eyes, and she kicked his blade away, standing over him. He reached for it, and she slammed her foot down on his arm, feeling the bones shatter under the weight of her foot, causing him to cry out in pain. He tried to kick and she kicked him back, catching his nose and smashing that too. Blood poured from his face, shattered teeth he spat to the ground, and he clutched at his torso where her blade had sunk in over and over and over again. 

And then he glared at her, hate in his eyes, and gave a hiss.

“Maker spit on you!” he roared through the blood and missing teeth. “I _deserved_ more.” She gave a wild laugh, and her sword found home again, this time somewhere lower, and his pain shook the chamber about them, echoing out. She grinned, but not in relief or joy, just a sick and twisted smile.

“Yes you did,” she breathed, and then she spat on him.

She watched his eyes until they dimmed, and he fell back dead, and then her grimace faded, and she stepped back, staring. 

The Cousland Blade clattered to the ground, and she crouched, leaning over him with tears blurring her vision again. But she forced herself to look, to see the confirmation of what she had done.

“For Highever,” she said, her voice bitter, and then sat back and rested her forehead on her knees, shoulders shaking for the force of her rage and tears.

It was Angus who pulled her back into reality, nuzzling her hand where her face was buried. She looked up, glancing to him over her arms, and he gave a low whine. And then he pissed on Howe’s corpse. 

She couldn’t help it. She laughed, bitterly, and reached for him, hanging about his neck and smelling the damp fur and pungent kaddis that covered him head to toe. 

“Eideann,” a soft voice called, and she looked up to see Alistair, watching her quietly, shield on his back, Duncan’s blade sheathed, but Maric’s sword in his hand. She looked to it, then back to him, and carefully pushed herself up. And then he held it out to her, and she took it, giving him a soft nod.

“There are more cells,” he told her softly, so she drew a deep breath and sheathed Maric’s sword, bending to collect the Cousland Blade and run a hand over Angus’s fur. The mabari nuzzled her fingers again, and she smiled.

_Fergus…_

She crossed to the doorway, stepping over the bodies, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in her wake. Leliana was standing near the door, eyes dark, and Zevran was beside her. 

“Someone you will want to see, _Bella_ ,” he told her grimly.

The cells were further beyond, just down the hall, and obviously they had made a point to stay back until she was ready. Eideann scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, glad she had dropped the gauntlets, and then drew a deep breath through her nose to steady herself.

“Who’s there!?” an angry voice called. “Stay away! You can’t do this to me! I’ll have you all flayed!” Eideann stared at him with tired eyes, unable to care anymore. “ _I’m_ the Arl of Denerim!” 

“Arl Urien,” she told him coldly, “is dead.”

“I’m Vaughan Kendalls!” he spat. “It’s true!” He glared at her, then sank back against the wall, crossing his arms. “Too many of our troops were lost at Ostagar, I suppose. When the riots started, Howe came with men to reinforce the garrison here. Or that’s what he claimed. As soon as I let him into the palace, he threw me in here. ‘One more victim of the elven uprising,’ he said. Let me out of here. I’ll do anything.” 

Eideann almost smiled. For the first time in his life, Arl Howe had done her a favor. She thought of the elven prisoner, his abducted bride and the uprisings Vaughan Kendalls had the nerve to call riots, and shook her head slowly. 

Part of her knew she should release this man. With the Landsmeet impending, she needed all the support she could muster, and his would be significant in turning others against Howe. Unlike Oswyn he was no mere son. He was, for all intents and purposes, the true Arl of Denerim, even if he had conspired with Howe to have Urien murdered. 

But it would turn the entire city against them at the grassroots. And she had seen the damage a single man could do a nation, even if she intended to see him pay for it later. True, the vote of the Arl of Denerim would be worth something, but not at the cost of the entire city’s support in the meantime. There were those who would be glad to never see him again. And in the end, she had a way to make sure if he could not vote for them, he definitely would not be voting against them. 

“Why did the elves revolt?” she asked him quietly, giving him a chance to change her mind. He scowled, wrinkling his nose.

“You know how elves are. Every now and then they start to think they’re people, and you have to put them back in their proper place.” She sighed, closing her eyes a moment, and then looked away. 

“Come here,” she said, motioning for him to step forward.

“So you’ll set me free.” She simply met his eyes and he did step forward then, a cold smile touching his lips. 

“Yes,” she said, catching hold of his shoulder through the bars. And then she rammed the Cousland Blade into his heart. “Now you are free,” she said softly, “and so is everyone else. Denerim is better off without you.” She let him go and the Cousland Blade slid free, and he slumped to the bottom of the cell, dead. 

She sheathed the still bloody sword and turned away from him. Her patience was done. 

There was the sound of a soft whimper from another cell further along, and she considered it a moment before carefully walking around the rubble of the crumbling dungeon wall. Alistair’s footsteps were clear as he came to join her, and Zevran and Leliana came after them more quietly. 

“Maker have mercy on Your faithful servant,” someone was whispering hoarsely. “Grant me a place at Your side. Grant me the cleansing flames.” There was a man, knelt in prayer, rocking back and forth and sobbing softly over his whispers. Eideann carefully drew close, and Leliana moved to unlock the door. At the sound of the tumblers, the man looked up, and Eideann froze, staring into the eyes of a man she knew.

“Irminric?” she breathed, taking in the sight of him. Maker’s breath… He considered her with confusion, and shrank back a little, rising. 

“Bride of the Maker, have mercy on me,” he pleaded softly. “Alfstanna, is that you, little sister.” And then he shook his head. “No…I…you aren’t Alfstanna. Who are you? Are you real?” She reached out a hand for him, and he shrank away.

“Irminric, it’s Eideann. Your cousin, Eideann,” she breathed. He stared, confused, and swallowed hard. This…this would flip Alfstanna in an instant, if Eideann’s presence alone did not. _This_ was unforgivable. Irminric was a Templar, the Knight-Lieutenant of the Denerim Chantry, and Templars were above the reach of the common law. He had abdicated his title to Alfstanna many years ago when it became clear he had no skill for it, and his real passion lay in a life of service to the Maker. “Are you alright?” she breathed. He shook his head.

“Alfstanna,” he murmured. “I don’t know. Where is my sister?” 

“He sounds like he’s in Lyrium withdrawal,” Alistair said coldly, angry on Irminric’s behalf. “Confusion, weepiness…He probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying. If the Grand Cleric knew he were in here, she’d be spitting hot coals. Nobles don’t have authority over Templars.” Irminric whimpered and turned away, burying his head in his hands.

“Alfstanna, I failed…I failed in my duties. Maker, forgive me. I failed and there’s no telling what he’s done.” Eideann finally touched him, and he gripped her hands in his, peering into her eyes. She was not Alfstanna, but there was a resemblance. Alfstanna looked much like her mother, and Eideann looked much like her own. 

“What are you talking about?” she asked him gently. “Who?”

“The maleficar,” Irminric spat. “He had turned blood magic upon Templars and Circle mages to escape the Tower. Near Redcliffe, I cornered him, but the Teyrn’s own men took him from me and brought me here…” Eideann narrowed her eyes, holding his hands tightly in her own. 

“This maleficar,” she said quietly. “Was his name Jowan?”

“Yes,” Irminric breathed. “He…destroyed his phylactery…we were spread out, trying to find him. I was alone. I…you are real aren’t you?” She nodded and he drew towards her, auburn hair falling in strands across his face. “My dreams are so strange now. Please, if you’re not a dream, help me…” She nodded again.

“Come, the door is open,” she told him softly, and he shook his head.

“No one can free me from failure, saved Blessed Andraste,” he told her, drawing back. He released her hands, and then slipped a silver band from his finger, holding it out to her. “Give this ring…to Alfstanna. Tell her…tell her I’m sorry. Please. Ask her…to pray for me.”

“I can’t leave you here!” Eideann protested. “Irminric, please!” He shook his head. Alistair, hand on her shoulder, drew her back.

“Eideann, we’ve cleared the dungeons. No harm can come to him down here. We are the ones in danger. We will go to your cousin, and get her to help. Her guards can do more for this place than just us four.” He was right, of course, so she tore her gaze away and nodded, pushing the silver band down onto her middle finger of her right hand for safe-keeping. 

She followed Alistair out through the chambers into the dungeon hall, determined not to look again at Howe’s corpse. The room stank of blood and piss, but she ignored it, Angus at her heels, and held her head high.

There would be time enough to answer for what she had done once this was done.

She suspected then she knew what the trap might be, and she somberly walked towards it, accepting. 

The halls were not empty, but the guards seemed suspiciously thinned as they made their way back the guest room. Erlina was waiting for them, shuffling a key in the lock of the door she had taken from Maker only knew where. It was not long before she had it open, and the door swung inward. 

Anora was wearing guard’s armor too, and Eideann considered her warily. 

_Too convenient,_ something whispered in her mind. _She’s part of the trap too._ And then another voice, quiet and warning, familiar now.

 _This is all connected._ She sighed and considered the woman who bowed her head and gave a curtsy even in ridiculous armor. 

My thanks,” she said courteously. Eideann just turned away.

“Let’s go,” she said firmly. They were not out yet.

“I’ll trust you to see me safely out,” Anora added, as if they were actually having a conversation, as if Eideann was capable of a conversation now of all things. She had just fought her way to Rendon Howe, murdered two Arls, found her lyrium-addled cousin sobbing in a cell, and come to the conclusion that all of it was still a giant trap. “If Howe’s people find me, I’ll be killed,” Anora insisted, though Howe’s people were not a threat to them anymore. “And if _my_ people find me, they’ll insist on escorting me back to the palace where my father may also have me killed.” Eideann just sighed again. 

Her nervous feelings were proven grounded when they reached the entrance hall. There, waiting, is an entire company of royal guard in silver and gold, and at their head Ser Cauthrien, Loghain’s loyal lapdog knight.

The woman took a step forward, her men blocking the door, and fixed Eideann with a cold stare.

“Warden, in the name of the regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men at arms,” she declared in an official voice. Eideann smiled slightly, shaking her head. There it was. There was the trap. No one else had seen Rendon Howe killed. No one had witnessed that murder. Someone had known full well that letting her lose in the Arl of Denerim’s estate would lead to it eventually. They had played on that need for vengeance. Anora had been the bait, the lure, her own anger had been the trap all along. Eideann raised her chin. Ser Cauthrien’s brow lowered slightly.

“Surrender, and you may be shown mercy,” she said formally. 

_May be?_ That was unlikely. Especailly has she _had_ killed Howe. 

She really had two options now. Fight and die, or talk her way out of it. There was enough anger then. She thought of Irminric, and felt the warm metal of his ring on her finger. And she thought of her companions, and glanced back. 

Her eyes fell on Alistair, who was staring at Ser Cauthrien like he was at a complete loss. And Eideann smiled.

Well, that settled that. 

She sensed her opportunity and carefully made her move. She did the only thing she could. She sowed the seeds of doubt.

“I stand down,” she said, and the tension in the room was so great a silence fell, like they had expected her to fight. Ah, they _had_ expected her to fight. And die. “You don’t know the whole story,” she said quietly after a moment. 

“Why stop now?” Alistair hissed. There was fear in his eyes. “Cauthrien is all that stands between us and freedom!” She nodded, and then carefully moved to unstrap the two blades at her back and pull her dagger slowly clear. She held them out to Leliana on her left, and the bard took them, hesitantly. Alistair, eyes cold, watched her a moment, then gave a soft sigh and tossed Duncan’s sword and scabbard to Zevran. 

“Are you sure this is what you wish?” Erlina asked. Still here then? She licked her lips. Fighting here could end up with Anora and Alistair both dead, and there was something else now in that space. Confusion. Whatever Loghain had said about them to Ser Cauthrien and her ilk, they had not expected this. And that was valuable, more valuable than she could say. They had come expecting a ragng and treasonous monster. What they found instead was this. They were winning allies without a single drop of bloodshed now.

And Riordan was alive, hopefully back at the Arl of Redcliffe’s Market District estate being treated by Wynne. He knew what to do if the gambit went poorly. 

Alistair was still a contender in the Landsmeet, and they could not harm him. But this could send a message. To be a contender at all, he needed to be a viable option. This was proof. By surrendering here, she had established that Alistair’s rule would have the legitimacy of rule of law. It needed that to succeed. It started there, changing hearts and minds.

“Killing them,” she said softly for Alistair’s benefit, but all in the room could hear her, “just reinforces Loghain’s lies about us.” He hesitated, and Ser Cauthrien did too, and then she made a motion.

The guards were rough, forcing her to her knees to shackle her wrists behind her. Alistair fell beside her, staring at the carpets, unable to look at her. She closed her eyes a moment, and glanced back.

The others were left alone, there in the hall, released in spite of their involvement, because Loghain had never wanted them. He had wanted her, and Alistair. Even so, they were not defeated. They were hauled to their feet and led outside to a cart where the crowd of workmen had been dispersed hurriedly. Eideann sat on the bench in the cart, watching the faces of the men standing guard. Alistair just closed his eyes and ignored them all.

 _Good,_ she thought. _Be above them. Be above me. Your blood is the blood of Kings._

About them, in the silence broken only by the rolling wheels of the cart, was where the real power lay. Loghain’s own men were questioning, and his own Knight stood witness to his lies.

***

Eideann lay on the cold stone of Fort Drakon’s prison floor, listening to the sounds of screaming. Her hand was clenched tightly around Irminric’s ring. The cold seeped through the quilted silk tunic of the Grey Wardens, but she did not care. She needed that cold. 

_He’s dead._

In the solitary holding cells, locked up safe away from the world, she finally had her moment to think everything through. And when she had thought everything through, she had wept again, beating the stone floor with her hands. And when that was through, she had finally fallen into sleep.

But now she was awake, her eyes half-open, staring at her palm. 

_Lord Oswyn gives me Bann Sighard. Irminric needs Alfstanna. There is no Arl of Denerim. My Teyrnir commands Highever. Arl Bryland’s sister is Elaine Howe, and Howe hated her. Arl Eamon will stand with us. My Teyrnir commands Highever. Bann Teagan is our friend. My Teyrnir commands Highever. Arl Wulff lost two sons to the Blight. I’m a Grey Warden, I battle the Blight. My Teyrnir…_

“Highever.” 

She breathed the word, like soft music, and felt the thrumming in her ears of something larger than her. Highever was _hers_. And Rendon Howe was dead.

Slowly she sat up, her hair falling about her face a little, and she drew a deep breath.

“Oh, you’re awake. I was beginning to worry.” Alistair sat in his tunic and leggings, back to the only solid cell wall, wrists resting on his bent knees, legs spread wide to hold him there. He was in the corner, farthest from her, and his look was tired and solemn. Eideann looked to him, and felt a jolt of pain shoot through her.

“Alistair...” she breathed. “I…I’m so sorry.”

“You had your reasons,” he said. His wrists were chafed from the shackles. So where hers. She swallowed, hard. He shook his head, smiling ever so slightly. “You always do, don’t you? I did tell you I’d follow you the Black City and back. A Tevinter prison will have to do instead.” She held in her smile, eyeing the place up. “So…will you tell me…your reasons?” She considered him, listening, but there were no guards nearby, only one on the other side of the room, out of earshot.

“It was a trap, of course. They knew we would be there, and they knew we would kill Howe. Anora herself was the first bait, to draw us in, a secondary trap set. She would not have been killed, I don’t believe that one minute, but the fear she could have would mean we would have to act, and placing her with Howe meant it suddenly was a very real possibility.” She shook her head, crossing her legs and considering him across their cell. “I don’t believe Loghain clever enough to set this up. And seeing as Ser Cauthrien fully expected Howe to end up dead, I am assuming that Howe did not either. That really only leaves one option.” He was watching, listening, waiting, so she glanced at the floor. “Anora herself. Far from it to suggest she is not working with her father. She is, in a way. After all, Ser Cauthrien’s men were the ones who came for us. Loghain knew she was there, since the arrest warrant came in his name, not hers. So he was complicit in a plan to bring us in, imprison us here. He could not kill you, not now, not in the heart of Ferelden. But he could remove you from the picture, and so he has. Meanwhile, his daughter gets to pretend she was a victim, and she infiltrates Arl Eamon’s estate. Perhaps on some level, she really is working for her own interests, not his, but I do not think that connection is truly broken, not yet. Anora may be discovering all available options, but she wants power. And she will do whatever she must to have it and hold it. Perhaps even sell out her own father.” He gave a soft snort of laugher, leaning his head back against the wall and shaking it slowly.

“You got all that from a rescue mission?” he sighed. “You’re scary.” 

“The men in Howe’s dungeon were all threats to Loghain and Anora, not Howe. And their story was…fascinating,” she told him darkly, brushing her hand across the stone floor and making a space clear of the dust of the ages. “An uprising in the Alienage silenced with a heavy hand when Anora and Loghain make Howe Arl of Denerim; the Templar sent to find Jowan, who we of course know poisoned Arl Eamon on Loghain’s orders locked away where he cannot do any harm by telling his story; war veterans who know the truth of Ostagar. And Bann Sighard’s son, captured and held hostage because Bann Sighard suspects something duplicitous. He was the man who mentioned all of Cailin’s advisors were dead, if you remember, from the tavern the other day.”

He gazed at her, and then he carefully reached for her. So she bent forward and crawled across the floor to join him, where he bundled her into his arms.

“Well, my little political minx, it appears we’ve finally hit a dead end. All that is well and good, but stuck here, what does it matter.” She shook her head, and for a moment they were silent, until she at last stared at the doors.

“I’ve…never seen a prison from this side before,” she told him, giving him a wry look. “Very scenic.” He gave a laugh, clear and bright, and she sighed a smile of relief at the sound, filling her with purpose and love. 

“Join the Grey Wardens! See the sights from the floors of the best prisons in the land!” he declared. “It’s not much of a recruitment slogan, is it?” 

“Probably still better than the Joining at any rate,” she replied, finally pushing herself up. “Half our recruits come from this side of prison bars anyway.” Her smile faded as he rose as well, and she looked back, meeting his amber eyes. “I _am_ sorry,” she said again. “It’s my fault you’re here.” He just shook his head.

“I’m with _you_ ,” he told her gently, making the best of it. “That’s enough to make it bearable.” She smiled slightly, then pulled back.

“Let’s get out of here.” He quirked an eyebrow.

“I hope you have a plan.” She grinned.

“I may have something…” she replied, and brushed her short hair from her eyes, then dropped her fingers to her waist. He eyed up her up warily and she gave him a small smile, then slowly began untying her tunic. He stared. 

“Lady Cousland, what are you doing?” he said with a tone of voice that made her giggle. He shook his head. “Really, Eideann. What are you doing?”

“Wait and see,” she said quietly, pressing a kiss to his lips, and then turning away, tunic loosened enough to bare her cleavage, slipping down one of her shoulders a little. She held it across her bosom with one hand, and then peered out through the bars to give a little whistle. The guard looked to her, and froze. She wrapped her free hand about the bars and leaned into them a little, giving him a sideways glance. 

“Eideann!” Alistair hissed, and she smiled slightly.

“Ser Knight,” she called softly, and the guard pushed himself off the wall, crossing towards them.

“If you’re not bleeding,” he grumbled, “I don’t care.” She looked at him through her eyelashes, letting her hand slip down her tunic a little. 

“I caught you watching me, from over there. You can’t say you’re not interested.” He scoffed, shaking his head.

“Nice try, Lady, but this is bullshit and you know it.” She shook her head, reaching for his breastplate and running her fingers over it. He did not pull away.

“Surely you must be lonely. My friend here is being quite…recalcitrant,” she told him, glancing back to Alistair. “But you know how it is.” He reached for the bars, and his hands strayed towards her. She drew back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Properly, Ser Knight. It will be very difficult to do this through bars. I may be dead soon, after all, and I won’t settle for something mediocre, you understand.” He smirked and rolled his eyes, but finally reached for his keys.

“I supposed I _could_ keep you company, you being a Lady all,” he said in a voice thick with something. She released the bars and ran her free fingers down her neck lightly.

“Could you?” she asked softly. “Please?” His eyes flickered to Alistair.

“What about him? He’s just going to sit there and do nothing?” She smiled slightly.

“Oh, he likes to watch,” she said and the guard chuckled, then moved towards the door.

“Alright, my Lady. The would-be King can watch while I fuck his would-be Teyrna.” He disappeared behind the Tevinter door, solid metal and opaque, and Eideann glanced back to Alistair. He shook his head in warning, and was a little red himself. She just smiled slightly and silenced him with a look, finger to her lips. He opened his mouth to hiss something, but the lock clicked in the cell door and it swung unward. She looked back to the guard. 

He crossed the stone floor towards her, taking her neck in his hand and pushing her face up with his thumb under her chin until she was forced to meet his eyes.

“No trouble, your Ladyship,” he said simply, “this is your only warning.” She smiled slightly, and he let his hand trail down, fingerless gloves proving skin on skin contact was possible in full armor. His fingers slipped lower, down over her collarbone, until finally he reached the swell of her breasts.

And she caught his hand there. He glanced up, eyes narrowing, and she gave him a coy little smile.

“Come now, Ser, I said properly,” she murmured. “You’re wearing far too much armor for this to work.” She released his hand and he stood there, eyes going to Alistair who was standing in the corner, chest rising and falling with anxiety as Eideann carefully loosened the staps of the guard’s silver and gold scale-mail. The pauldrons came off first, then the breastplate, and she moved about him, carefully letting it all fall aside. 

“Maker, they put a lot of buckles on this thing,” the guard muttered and Eideann gave a soft laugh. False and fake but true enough to someone who did not know the difference. 

She unfastened the mace hooked at his belt and carefully bent to drop it down... 

And then swung up instead, catching him on the side of his head and felling him at once. He crumpled to the ground at her feet, and she took a step back, lowering the weapon. She gathered her tunic about her, fastening it’s sash tightly in place, and looked at Alistair, eyes a little wide.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “That worked rather well, all things considered.”

“Eideann.” His look was dark.

“Oh come on now,” she said shaking her head. “You’re a terrible actor, though to be honest if he did not like my offer, I was planning on suggesting you try next.” He stared at her flatly, and she sighed. “We’re free. That’s enough. I had to get him in here somehow.”

“You could have…fallen to the floor…pretended to be ill,” he suggested, his voice miffed.

“Unless you’re bleeding, I don’t care,” she told him in a mock of the guard’s voice. “Anyway, it took enough effort to get him in here for an actual reason, never mind pretending to be ill.” He shook his head.

“You’re incorrigible,” he told her, and she grinned, pulled him into a deep kiss over the body of the guard, and tasting him on her tongue, soft and sweet. And then she broke away, bending to collect the keys, and handed him the mace.

“You take this,” she told him with a smile. “You hit harder than I do anyway.” He sighed and took it, hefting it to test it in his hands, and then glanced to the guard.

“It was a fairly good shot,” he admitted after a moment, and she smiled, taking his hand. “Though I really should have hit him for you. Did you see the way he was looking at you, like he was…” She felt a little touched at the thought, but had hardly been expecting it. Her open tunic had distracted him as well, she knew. His cheeks were still a little red.

“Wanting?” she suggested, finishing his sentence. “That was the plan.” He fixed her a worried look, so she sighed. “Come on, before another comes along and sees him here.” 

She pulled him through the door and then released him as he stepped up beside her. Fort Drakon was not just a prison. It was a war machine. There, soldiers trained for the King’s Army, and the royal kennels were kept. It was an armory and a storage facility for siege engines and weapons of war, and higher up a barracks to house a military might. It would take cunning to escape, not brute force.

Eideann slipped through the doorway and peered down the corridor before certain it was clear. They hurried down it, keeping to the carpets which muffled their footsteps however thin the weave. The corridors were lined with the red Theirin mabari sigil on golden and white quartered shields, and she looked at them wryly.

“The hospitality of your forebears?” she said softly to Alistair. He shook his head, shrugging, and had no retort. 

She found a small storeroom not far along the corridor. She knew it for a storeroom because there was nothing decorative about marking it as unique or special, and because the doorframe was simple carved stone, not ornate. She let them in, and Alistair pressed himself against the wall as she shut the door behind them.

They were in luck. Armor racks lined the walls, and Eideann grinned and glanced to Alistair.

“Disguises got us in,” he muttered, but he had a small smile too. Minus all the danger, it was not really all that bad. They pulled on the pieces, and she made sure they lay straight and fit properly. They really did need to look the part if it was meant to work. He sighed and fastened on his greaves over his Warden boots, hoping no one would notice the different colors beneath their main plate. 

“You know, he muttered adjusting the straps, “there’s something about being trapped in a fortress of people who want me dead that makes me think…hmm…being a Templar may not have been so bad.” She just shrugged and settled a helmet over her head.

“At least it isn’t boring,” she told him lightheartedly. 

“Eideann,” he reached and carefully pulled her helmet from her head. “Tell me honestly.” His smile was gone, and his eyes serious. She met them. “Are you really planning to make me King?” She considered him a moment, then looked away, catching her lower lip between her teeth.

“If I have to,” she said. “I have said some things about Anora that paint her in a bad light, but I may yet be wrong about her. If I am, then we shall learn more once we have escaped. No doubt she’ll be hiding in Arl Eamon’s estate.” She glanced back to him. “But if I am not wrong, if I have judged her right, and she truly is aligned with her father…” she trailed off and he drew a deep breath before slowly letting it out, calming himself.

“I see,” he said, turning away. He picked up a helmet and then paused. “I don’t want it, you know.” She watched him a moment, then wet her lips.

“Yes,” she told him. “I know.” She settled the helmet back on her head and turned back to the door.

The true armory proved to be not much farther along the corridor. Sensing an opportunity to arm themselves properly, Eideann motioned for Alistair to abandon the mace, and instead marched up to the quartermaster, plate mail creaking as she walked and chiming in each footstep. 

“I should have been a corporal by now,” the man was muttering, bending over a crate of swords packed with straw and checking things off on a clipboard in his hands with a stick of charcoal. “You ever see _them_ polishing the rust off the armor.” He stood up, and caught sight of them, and Eideann threw a quick salute, hand over fist, bowing her head.

“Hey,” the man said, eyeing them up. “Are you relieving me? It’s about time.”

“Yes, sorry I’m late,” Eideann said quickly, and beside her Alistair gave a nod. 

“Good,” the quartermaster muttered, shoving the clipboard into her hands. “About time you got to work. I’ve done the first three. The rest is on you. Mind the blighted chainmail. The Commander will skin us both if he finds any rust.” He motioned to the crates, and then turned away, leaving them to it. Eideann set aside the clipboard and picked up a sword instead, then pulled a shield from the wall. All the Knights of the royal guard wore shields. She was just going to have to make do. Alistair followed suit, testing the sword in his hand, and sighed.

“Not the best,” he muttered, and Eideann shook her head.

“Apparently the King’s Army will need an evaluation. I can’t believe he just up and left. Between him and that guard at the cell…Maker’s breath.” Alistair just gave her a sigh and settled his shield on his back.

There really was nowhere else to go on that end of the hall, so they crossed instead the other way, using their disguise to work out the best way to escape. The gates that led out where under heavy guard, and no one was going in or out. That would be a problem. So they retreated back down the corridor to plan.

Two officers stood outside the door to the Commander’s office now, arguing over something silly. At their approach, one looked up, and smiled.

“Ah! You must be the new recruits we were expecting. You’re late!” he declared, arms crossed. Really? New recruits? Any moment now their luck was going to run dry. “The rest of your patrol is in the storage room. Find them, and get yourselves ready for inspection.” Eideann, amused by the entire thing, went along with it. For once, she did not have to save the world or kill anyone. Instead, it was like a game. 

The other new recruits were indeed in the storeroom at the far end of the hall where some of the ammunition for the siege equipment was stacked. At least Ferelden was armed for war, there was that much to be said of it all. But the recruits themselves were just sitting about peeling potatoes. Brilliant.

“I almost didn’t make it out the mess today,” one of them was saying. “Forgot the blighted password again.” Password? To get into the mess-hall? Maker’s breath, what kind of operation required people to know a password to _leave_ the tower? Unless, of course, they had every confidence that prisoners could escape at any moment, just as she and Alistair were doing right then.

It only took a little convincing to get the pair of them on their feet and eager to join Alistair and her. They were new, after all, and did not recognize anyone, which proved a benefit. Eideann forgave them that, even if she was a little exasperated at the entire ordeal. 

But they panicked when she told them about the evaluation they were meant to report for. The quartermaster was apparenty on poor terms with them, and refused to give them their weapons. Of course, Alistair and Eideann had already dealt with that problem earlier, so Eideann suggested they go together, and Alistair was grinning when they retraced their steps to the armory. 

The two guardsmen hesitated at the door, but then realized the chamber was empty and fell into exchanging mad grins.

“Andraste’s secret girdle!” one exclaimed, causing Alistair to snicker at the odd curse. “He’s gone!” The recruits set about helping themselves to their gear, grinning ear to ear at their good luck. 

And that was how they found themselves standing in an inspection line, shoulder to shoulder with two new guardsmen, staring into the eyes of the Commander of the guard. 

“So,” the man said after a moment of staring them down. “You think you’re ready to go on your first patrol mission, do you?” 

“Yes, Ser,” Eideann said for them all, seizing control. The Commander turned to look at her, the shortest one of the bunch, and smiled slightly.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said. Then clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the others. “You there.” One of the recruits. “Stand up straight! You’re a solder in the King’s Army, and the King’s own men don’t slouch!” The recruit, startled, straightened his spine and shoulders, looking straight ahead. The Commander paced before them. “And you…” The other recruit. “Stop fidgeting. You can fidget on your own time.” Eideann stifled a smile by biting hard on her upper lip. Beside her Alistair ducked his head a little, until the Commander peered at him. “You there, blondie.” He looked up, startled. 

“Yes, ser?” he asked. The Commander paused before him and then crossed his arms.

“What’s the one thing a soldier can’t do without?” the Commander asked. Alistair’s lips parted a little. 

But Alistair _was_ a soldier. A Templar. He knew damn well the answer. 

“Discipline,” he replied quietly, and a smile twisted on the Commander’s lips.

“I expect the lot of you back here by sunup,” he said, and Eideann was a little alarmed that it was evening already. “Now get out of here. And Maker watch over you.” She gave the fist salute again, as the others did, and then turned on her heel with a bit of soldier flair for good measure, leading her new crew out. 

Now it all came down to whether or not the soldier had remembered the password or not. She prayed to the Maker he head. She really did not want to have to kill any of the King’s Army when she was trying to win a Landsmeet. They were foolish, but they were still the King’s men. Not Anora’s. The Crown’s. Whoever that would be. And she needed all the forces she could muster for the Blight.

They returned to the heavily guarded door, where one man was complaining about his armor being too tight, and the recruit stepped forward, clearing his throat. The guardsmen turned to consider them, and one of them crossed his arms.

“Password?” he said lazily after eyeing them up a moment. Eideann did not dare look to the recruits, but the one who had nearly forgotten it before stood up without pressure. 

“Err…rabbit. I think,” he said. And Eideann held her breath. And then the guard at the door sighed and stepped out of the way. 

“Going on your first patrol, are you?” the other guard said merrily. “Good luck!” Alistair thanked him with a cheeky smile, and then they went out.

The stars were glittering above by the time they left the tower, shining over Denerim like they were winking at a good joke. Eideann gave a soft laugh, looking up at them, and shifted a little in the borrowed armor.

And then she and Alistair proceeded to lose the two new recruits in the backstreets. 

It had been a little fun actually, if silly. And it had been a long time since they had any fun. But they were safe, and so was Anora, and that was what mattered. So they set their sights on home, clad in the armor of the Ferelden Army.

“Rabbit?” Alistair sighed, shaking his head after losing his helmet somewhere. “Really?” And Eideann just laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the Howes, the Couslands, and the history of Highever:
> 
> True to lore again, regarding Tarleton Howe, Harper's Ford, and Samir Cousland's ascension to the title of Bann in Highever in the Tower's Age. Also true the Battle of White River and the fact only fifty rebels survived, among them Bryce Cousland, Rendon Howe, and Leonas Bryland. Leonas Bryland's sister is Elaine Howe, and Rendon Howe actually does hate her. And yes, the Howe cousin, Bann Conobar Elsten, was the Conobar from Flemeth's legend.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and Alistair flee to Bann Alfstanna's estate; Anora lays down her terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

Eideann did not go immediately to Arl Eamon’s estate. She slipped through the darkness, having shed the guardsman armor for the comfort of the dark fabric of her Grey Warden tunic. Alistair, having done the same, followed her through the backstreets. She slipped through a gap in a stone fence and into the lower Palace District, where Alistair reached to catch her arm.

“Where are we going?” he asked, and her eyes flickered to the ring on her hand.

“Somewhere safe.” As they had shed their disguises, her mood had altered. She had fluctuated from anger and grief and hollowness to euphoria and mania, and now she had settled into that empty feeling she filled with duty.

First, duty to family.

She paused in the center of the street, and then she turned to examine a tall wall with a spiked railing. She glanced up and down the wall, and Alistair glanced at her.

“You’re not – ?” She jumped, gripping hold of the top of the wall and hauling herself up with effort. “You are.” He put his hands on his hips. “Eideann, Maker, what are you doing?” She looked back at him, gripping the spiked railing and carefully stepping over it, balancing herself on the top of the wall. 

“Come on,” she told him. He raised his eyebrow, looking up at her.

“Do you really think that the Teyrna of Highever and Maric’s bastard should be breaking and entering?” he demanded in a low voice. She looked to the house, then back to him.

“We just broke out of prison,” she said flatly. “And anyway, we’re not breaking and entering. I just…imagine that the location’s main entrance is under watch.” He shook his head, then crossed to a stack of crates nearby and hauled himself up after her.

“Why do you think that?”

“Alfstanna will be here. And Loghain knows full well Alfstanna is a threat. That’s why Irminric is in the dungeon. I have to do something for him, and quickly, and Alfstanna has her own guardsmen.” She walked along the top of the wall with the balance that came from years of martial training and reached for his hand, holding onto the spiked railing and helping him climb up the rest of the way. Then she slowly lowered herself down onto the other side, landing a little roughly on the new grass. Alistair slipped down beside her and then adjusted his tunic roughly.

“I’m sure she’ll love this idea,” he muttered. She glanced to him, hesitating, and then turned to him, taking his head in both hands and meeting his eyes in the darkness. 

“Alistair,” she said suddenly, her look serious, “Whatever happens from here on out, I have to act now for Ferelden. What I want, what you want…these things are secondary. What matters is Ferelden and the Blight.” He considered her a moment, eyes narrowed, and then finally closed them and nodded, pulling back.

“So be it,” he told her, solemn and quiet. “Wardens do whatever it takes to end the Blight. I know my duty.” She nodded, and then crossed to the estate, fingers clenched tight about the silver ring. 

They encountered first a servant who came bustling out a side door with a bucket preparing to draw some water. When she saw them in the garden, the woman gave a sharp cry of alarm, but Eideann managed to calm her down after a moment of fervent explanation.

“I’m Bann Alfstanna’s cousin, Eideann Cousland. I’m in trouble. Please, I need her help. Can you take us to her? Please?” The woman was suspicious, but agreed to bring Alfstanna’s Captain of the Guard to make the decision, and that resulted in a fairly straightforward effort from there. This was mostly in part to the fact that he recognized Eideann almost immediately and took them himself to Alfstanna after that.

Alfstanna Eremon’s estate was smaller than those of other Banns, a mere manor house in comparison, with only two floors, part of the structure even built of wood. The corridors were lined with panels of Waking Sea oak, and the furniture was thick with Alamarri and nautical themes. Alfstanna’s jurisdiction extended from the northern coast where the River Dane spilled into the sea and up into the islands north of the coastline. Her harbor was a major sea-port, and busy enough in those last months as people fled the Blight. Waking Sea was prosperous, but ultimately owed its allegiance to Highever.

Alfstanna was the younger of two children, Irminric the original heir to the Bannorn. He had given it up in favor of her to become a Templar, deciding she was was better suited. Given that, however, Alfstanna was older than Eideann by a good few years, closer to Fergus in age, and when she emerged from her chambers to meet them in her drawing room, clad hastily in a housecoat of blue velvet, she looked older than Eideann had seen her. Small lines were starting to form at the corner of her eyes, though perhaps only because she was tired, and it made Eideann feel old. 

Alfstanna froze when she saw her, standing a moment clutching her housecoat over her cotton shift. And then she closed the space between them in two paces, throwing her arms about Eideann and giving a disbelieving laugh.

“Maker’s breath! Eideann, we thought…when we heard about Highever…” She pulled back to get a good look at her, and Eideann breathed a sigh, then wet her lips.

“Alfstanna, there’s a lot to tell you, and not much time.” Her cousin gave her a considering look, then nodded.

“You look like you’re starving. Let me find you something to eat, and then you can begin with introductions.” Eideann nodded and the Bann turned away, calling down the hall for the maidservant from earlier to get them some tea and whatever food was left from the earlier table. That done, she motioned to Eideann to continue, her eyes falling to Alistair and taking in the Grey Warden tunics they were wearing. “I sense a long story here, little cousin.” 

“First things first,” Eideann said steadily, glancing to Alistair. “You know by now about the Landsmeet.” Alfstanna eyed her warily but nodded. “This is…Prince Alistair Theirin of Ferelden.” Alfstanna’s gaze was unreadable a moment, and then she careful wet her lips and drew a breath. 

“I can’t say I’m thrilled to meet you,” she said quietly. “This is a very difficult time, and I do not believe this Landsmeet is helping.” Alistair said nothing, and Eideann shook her head.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said quietly. “I have to tell you the story, so you know why I am here, and as I said we have not got much time.” The tea came in a steaming teapot, and Alfstanna let the servant pour her some before sinking into a seat to consider them. Eideann did not make a move to touch anything brought, instead standing in the center of the room.

“Begin with what you are doing sneaking into my house in the middle of the night with…Prince Alistair?” Alfstanna suggested.

“We just escaped from the prisons of Fort Drakon,” Eideann told her simply. “Loghain had us imprisoned.” A shade of darkness crossed Alfstanna’s eyes and she leaned forward.

“Why?” she asked. 

“Because we are Grey Wardens, and because we know the truth.” She wove the tale then, in its entirety, beginning at Highever with the death of the Couslands, her flight south, and the Battle of Ostagar. She told her about the floor tiles in the Tower of Ishal, and the papers she had discovered in the chest Cailin had kept. She told her about the Warden Treaties, about raising an army to battle the Blight, and then she told her about Howe. 

She did not mention Anora, only in passing to explain why they had gone. She did not mention Anora was part of the trap. 

When she was done, Alfstanna was sitting uncomfortably, her gaze on Eideann trying to read what was true and what was false. Until Eideann moved to pull the silver ring from her hand.

“This…this is yours. I was asked to give this to you.” She held it out, and Alfstanna leaned forward, clutching her tea in one hand, and took the ring. She considered it a moment, then looked up, fear in her eyes.

“This…is Irminric’s.” She narrowed her green-eyed gaze and rose, setting aside her tea. “My brother would no more part with this ring than with his head.” She shook her head. “He…he’s been missing so long…we thought him dead. Please, where is he, Eideann?”

“You might ask Loghain,” Eideann said quietly, weary and quiet now. “He’s in the dungeon of the Arl of Denerim’s estate.” Alfstanna grimaced, clutching the ring tightly against her heart.

“I…I will go to him at once,” she said after a moment, anger lacing her features. “ _Someone_ will answer for this.” 

“Rendon Howe was Arl of Denerim after he paid Antivan Crows to kill Arl Urien. Vaughan Kendalls is dead as well. Anyone in those dungeons was there because they threatened Loghain, Alfstanna,” Eideann said. She glanced to Alistair. “I know I am asking you to take a lot on faith, but you knew Cailin. Look at him and tell me you do not see Maric in his face.” Alfstanna’s gaze slipped to Alistair, then to Eideann again.

“Even if it were true…Anora…”

“The Landsmeet is not about who becomes Queen or King,” Eideann said quietly, heading off the conversation before it could begin in earnest. “The fact is that Loghain has usurped the power even from his own daughter. She cannot stand against him until we move against him. And right now, Arl Eamon and I are the only ones who are even trying. Please. Help us bring what he has done to light.” Alfstanna grimaced, considering, then nodded.

“I will send word to Eamon that you are safe for the moment. You must rest here until the morning. I shall see to it you are given guest rooms and something else to wear.” She looked at the ring, then gathered her skirts. “I must attend to my brother now. Excuse me. Please…have something to eat. You must be starving. And the servants will get some water for you both to wash.” She gave a low bow of head, considered Eideann a moment longer, and then nodded, sweeping out and leaving them alone in the drawing room.

“Did you mean that?” Alistair asked quietly, not moving from where he stood leaning against the far wall. “All that about the Landsmeet, and about Cailin?” Eideann gave a joyless smile and then nodded.

“You do not want to be King. And I do not know if Anora should be Queen. But it does not matter in the end. Who ends up ruling will be the secondary result of the Landsmeet. Once Loghain falls, our voice is united in opposition, and the Blight takes priority.” She shook her head. “You made me Warden-Commander. I will do my duty as well.” He sighed, pushing up from the wall, and giving her a subtle look. 

“I can carry some of the responsibility too, you know. But you have to tell me when you make these plans. Instead of…making me climb over walls and sneak into your cousin’s home?” She nodded.

“I’ll try to tell you next time I break into the houses of extended families, but I make no promises,” she muttered, and he gave a small smile at that. So she turned and went to pour them some tea, tired and suddenly starving. He took a cup from her, and a plate of food, and they ate in silence, hungrier than either of them realized. They had not even really had breakfast, and now it was almost the following dawn. 

The servant who had been assisting them all evening came to show them to guest chambers at the far end of the house, rooms set side by side. She had left a pitcher of steaming water for each of them in the rooms, so Eideann slipped out of her dirty tunic and sponged herself down, the best she could do under the circumstances, what with it being so late and her arrival such short notice. 

The servant had left her a clean shift, one of Alfstanna’s, which she crawled into and marveled at the soft cotton. And then, exhausted and unable to think straight anymore, she crawled into the four-post bed and sank into the down. 

She was startled away by the sound of people returning from the Arl of Denerim’s estate. Alfstanna was speaking in hushed tones to Irminric, who was in a state. Eideann pushed herself from bed to see if she could help, but found that someone had beaten her to it. Alistair.

He stood with her cousins, holding Irminric’s hands, and explaining to him softly about lyrium withdrawal and the need to contact the Chantry immediately. As Knight-Lieutenant, Irminric had a number of available avenues for assistance, but Alfstanna sent a runner out into the gray light of dawn for lyrium with an explanation. Irminric, unable to turn away from her, clung to Alfstanna and Alistair both. Eideann, standing in her doorway, watched in silence, and then slowly retreated. 

He was right, of course, as per usual. There were some things he could handle. And this assistance would save her cousin, she knew. He was the Templar, the one who knew of these sorts of things. And it would ingratiate him to Alfstanna. 

It was some time later when a soft knock came at her door. She had expected a servant, or perhaps Alistair, but it was Alfstanna herself standing there, a gown in her arms, dark circles under her eyes.

“Irminric is safe,” was the first thing she said, “thanks to you and Prince Alistair.” 

“I could not leave him there. I tried to make him come with us…” Alfstanna just shook her head, silencing her.

“You did what you could, Eideann. And because of you he is alive and safe. I have much to be grateful for.” She glanced in, the question in her eyes, and Eideann stepped back, allowing her access. Alfstanna entered, closing the door behind her carefully, and considered her with quiet green eyes. They were not the same as Eleanor’s, not exactly. Only the shape was a mirror. But they held the same evaluation, the same quiet consideration. Mac Einraig eyes. 

She hesitated, then held out the gown, glancing to it where it lay in her arms. “I thought…since your tunic needed washing…” Eideann had not even noticed it was gone. But she did not worry. It would be returned when it was clean. She stepped forward, reaching to run her hand over the gown, a crushed velvet nap in a slate gray, the color of Waking Sea. And she looked up.

“Thank you,” she breathed, and Alfstanna shook her head. 

“No, Cousin. This is nothing compared to what you have done.” She helped her dress then, lacing the gown for her with nimble fingers. “I used to help your mother dress you when you were a little girl,” she said quietly, a small smile in her voice. “Not much has changed, it seems.” 

Except everything had, of course.

Eideann’s Warden Pendant fell atop the gown, a drop of blood red on a field of silver blue, stark and deep and a warning. She turned to Alfstanna who nodded.

“I sent word to Eamon Guerrin that you were safe by runner, who made sure he was not followed. With any luck, your return will only be noticed when it is too late to do anything about it. I myself will spread the news about Irminric. The Grand Cleric is furious, and now we know who is to blame…” she darkened. “He tells me Loghain’s own men detained him to free an apostate.” 

“Jowan,” Eideann confirmed. “He poisoned Arl Eamon on Loghain’s command.” Alfstanna looked away, pacing across the carpets with a grim look, arms crossed.

“This is a deeper plot than I believed. He has been pulling strings for months. This Jowan escaped almost a year ago. Irminric’s disappearance…” she sighed and then looked back. “I will do what I can to help you, Eideann. You have my word.” Her looked hardened. “Let there always be friendship between Highever and Waking Sea. Let me know if you want some of my bowmen when you take back your teyrnir, as well. Word will not have reached them yet of Arl Howe’s death, but his son Thomas may go to ground there when he does.” 

“Highever is strong,” Eideann said quietly. “Its people have stood against the Howes this long, and when word reaches them of his death at my hand, they will rise up with or without me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I am a Grey Warden. I must do my duty to all of Ferelden. Then I may retake Highever.” Alfstanna nodded, then sighed, motioning to the door.

“This…Prince Alistair,” she said quietly. “He seems…a good man.” 

“He is,” Eideann said quietly, meeting Alfstanna’s eyes. “Honorable and courageous and gentle.” Alfstanna considered her a moment, then gave a slight shadow of a smile and nodded.

“I see,” she said softly. “I shall see what I can do.” 

“Thank you,” Eideann told her quietly, and she nodded.

“I have provided an escort for you to Arl Eamon’s estate, in case Loghain’s men are out looking for you,” she explained as they descended the steps to the first level and the front hall. “I will be in touch, Cousin. You are not alone.” Eideann embraced her, feeling the warmth in Alfstanna’s thin frame, and then nodded.

“Ready?” 

Alistair was wearing an open, borrowed doublet of dark leather over a simple white shirt. His own Warden pendant hung around his neck too, glistening red as her own was, and he considered her, then smiled a little, shaking his head.

“I am never going to get used to seeing you a dress,” he told her with a soft chuckle, then his smile faded and he gave a solder’s bow to Alfstanna. “Thank you, Lady Alfstanna, for your hospitality.” Alfstanna just nodded, giving a slight smile.

“Thank you for my brother,” she replied softly. “Go, quickly, before Loghain’s men come for you.”

They met no real resistance, however, in the early hours of the dawn. Alfstanna’s Captain of the Guard came with them, sharing a few words of condolences about Highever with Eideann as they walked. But mostly it was silent, and uneventful. 

Loghain either did not know they had escaped, or else had not determined where they would have gone. That, or he had simply recognized that arresting or attacking them was no longer a viable option if he wanted to win a Landsmeet.

Arl Eamon’s estate was quiet, though the Market Square was busier, readying for the day’s sales. There was some desperation in faces now, fear and drawn tension. The Blight grew close, and many were refugees fleeing its encroachment on the Bannorn. It was a stark reminder again that they were almost out of time. 

Arl Eamon’s guards recognized them immediately. Alfstanna’s Captain exchanged a few words with the man at the gate over some sort of cooperation, and then bade them farewell with a deep bow and a soft, “Your Ladyship, Your Majesty”. Alistair did not even squirm at the title that time, though he did look a little resigned when they finally went inside. 

There they found Leliana, asleep on a bench near the main door, as if she had been up waiting all night. At the sound of the doors closing behind her, she sat up sharply, startled into wakefulness. She stared a moment, as if she was not sure what she was seeing, and then was up out of her seat in an instant, closing the distance between them. 

“You’re alive,” she breathed, embracing them both, then drew back to consider the cut from Howe’s axe across Eideann’s cheek. “Wynne should look at that,” she said quietly, then considered them. “After you were taken, we thought…Zevran went to see about finding some contacts, but had no luck. Arl Eamon was furious of course.”

“Anora?” Eideann said quietly. 

“She is here. The Arl gave her his best chambers, but he was angrier about you. When word came from Bann Alfstanna…” She sighed. “How did you escape?”

“It’s…a long story,” Alistair said quietly, and Leliana swallowed, then nodded, turning to the bench where their equipment lay, waiting in a pile. She returned their swords to them: the Cousland Blade, Maric’s dragonbone sword, Duncan’s dagger, Duncan’s sword. Eideann tucked Duncan’s dagger into her boots as Alfstanna’s gown had no belt or sash. Alistair, considering the sword in his hands, gripped the sheath like he was never letting it go again. Leliana looked between them, then bit at her lip.

“The…err…the Queen wanted to speak to you the moment you returned,” she finally said.

“Of course she did,” Eideann said softly. “Take us to her.” Leliana hesitated a moment.

“I will, but first I want Wynne to take a look at you.” Her hand strayed to their wrists where the chafing from the shackles had rubbed them both raw. 

“Alright,” Alistair said softly for them. “We will wait.” Leliana nodded, and then disappeared back into the house, leaving them in the hall. Alistair considered Duncan’s sword again, then glanced to Eideann with a wry look. “Back to business as usual, it appears,” he said with a smile. “I…I wanted to come to you, you know. Last night. It…didn’t feel right without you there.” She smiled slightly, dropping her gaze.

“For the time being, it’s best we keep what is between us between us as much as possible,” she replied after a moment. “The last thing we need is to give Loghain ammunition against us by letting him claim Eamon and I are trying to put you on the throne because we’re emotionally involved.” Alistair gave her a troubled look, but before he could reply Wynne swept into the entrance hall, stren expression on her face.

She went immediately to Eideann, taking hold of her face and turning it so she could see the cut there. And then she shook her head a little angrily.

“It should heal clean,” she said, pouring magic into it, “but it is deep. Maybe a scar, but it is too soon to tell.” She turned her attention to Eideann’s gaze. “If you don’t mess with it, it should be fine.” Eideann gave her a pointed look and a small smirk. 

“I am not the one messing with it,” she said simply, softly. And then she brought her hand up slowly towards her face. Wynne slapped it away brusquely, then turned her attention to her wrists.

“Maker’s breath, I wish you two would stop getting into so much trouble.” 

“Thank you for worrying, Wynne,” Eideann said quietly, and the elderly mage’s gaze flickered back up to her, full of worry and concern and now relief.

“Someone has to do the worrying,” she replied. She motioned to Alistair to roll up his sleeves and then tutted at the chafing she saw on him as well. “Really, if it isn’t darkspawn and Deep Roads and dragons with concussions, it’s chains. Couldn’t you at least try to stay out of trouble for one day?” Eideann sighed and Alistair gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head, still holding the Duncan’s sword by the scabbard. 

“We could try,” he said calmly, “but the world might end.” Wynne gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. 

“You may be a Prince, young man, but you’re not too big to go over my knee for being cheeky.” He raised an eyebrow and then backed away. 

“Of course,” he said with another slight smile, but said nothing else after that. 

Her evaluation done, Wynne set her hands on her hips and glanced between them with a sigh.

“I can’t say you’re in perfect condition, because you aren’t, but at least you are alive. Just…don’t do it again.” Eideann nodded, and the mage stepped aside. “The Queen is waiting for you with Arl Eamon,” she said, and Eideann’s smile faded. She nodded.

“Very well, where is she?”

“I will take you to her,” Leliana said quietly from where she had been waiting while Wynne worked.

Anora was with Arl Eamon, arguing over something, which was cut short the moment they appeared. They were in Arl Eamon’s study, gathered about the desk in the center of the room. Eideann paused in the doorway, and Eamon gave a relieved sigh, stepping from behind the desk to come and look them over.

“Maker’s breath,” he breathed, greeting them. “It’s good to see you in one piece, my friend. Alistair…you both look well, considering.”

“Indeed,” came the clipped tones of Anora’s steel-touched voice. “We have been praying for your safe return, Warden.” Eideann noticed she said nothing to Alistair, who simply lingered a little behind her in his borrowed clothes, Duncan’s scabbard firm in his grasp. 

“I am glad to see you are both safe,” came another gentle voice from near the cold fireplace, and Eideann smiled at the sight of Riordan, bandaged and looking tired, but alive, seated in one of the armchairs. “It looks like you are no worse for wear after your stay in Fort Drakon.”

“You made it.” He nodded. But now was not the time. Eideann sighed.

“I think I’ve seen as much dungeon as I ever want to,” she said quietly, shaking her head, and fixing Arl Eamon with a look.

“I can believe it,” he chuckled, “though I am afraid if we don’t act quickly to erode Loghain’s support we may all be seeing a great deal of Fort Drakon in the future.” 

“I hope you like potatoes,” Alistair grumbled. Eideann dismissed him, shaking her head.

“How much time do we have?” she asked quietly, and Eamon sighed.

“Very little.” It was Anora who answered, coming to join them, demanding their attention with her presence in their midst. “We will need to act quickly, and together.” She sighed, fixing Eideann with a look. “My father,” she said firmly, “has gone mad. I didn’t believe it at first, but he is gripped by a paranoia so severe it prevents him from seeing sense.” Eideann met her gaze, Cousland blue on Mac Tir grey. “He saw me as a threat, yet even now I’m certain he will be telling the nobles you are dangerous murderers that have kidnapped and mind-controlled me. He may even believe it.” She turned away, skirts sweeping the floor. Apparently the elven maid Erlina had brought her some of her own clothes from the Palace. Her hair was twisted up about a gold coronet, and she looked impeccable for someone who had apparently fled for her own safety. 

But at least she had decided that Loghain was a threat, if nothing else. Already, Eideann knew, they were fair-weather allies alone. Anora did not trust her one lick, and she did not trust Anora. She was there only because she wanted something, and Eideann was willing to bet all of Highever it was the throne.

But politics was not about trust.

For five years, Anora had apparently ruled in Cailin’s name, a spider weaving webs in his shadow to net together the kingdom. Eideann was willing to admit she had the skills to do it. Anora was practical, capable, and laced with the steel to make difficult decisions if necessary. As Cailin’s wife, she probably had done much to run the country. But as his widow she had watched her country descend into civil war. She had allowed Loghain enough power to wreak havoc across Ferelden. 

The nobles liked her well enough, of course. Anora and Cailin were meant to be the rebirth of a dynasty, the golden age. Her name meant light after all. Their union had been planned since they were young. 

But the support of the nobility meant nothing in a country that was founded by the support of the people. Just as a Teyrnir was raised by the Bannorn, which in turn were raised by the Freeholders, the monarchy itself was given its power from the ground up. The Landsmeet that was now divided over her father was necessary to confirm the power of the throne. Yes, the nobles may like her, but the people did not. 

Anora was manipulative, but her plans relied on the ignorance of others. Her intrigues, in Eideann’s experience, fell short when confronted with those with the knowledge to stand aganst her. The trap at the Arl’s estate was no accident, and its threads still appeared to lead back to her. To the untrained eye, such political machinations might go unnoticed. But Eideann’s was not untrained. However much she had complained in her youth at the lessons of strategy and history and the inner workings of the houses of the Bannorn, she had internalized their fundamental lessons. And if Orzammar had taught her anything, it was how to master the game. Compared to the dwarves, the politics of Denerim were child’s play, a sandbox of clumsy structures and messy pitfalls. And Anora was in the middle of it, as its Queen.

There was also the contents of those letters from Ostagar, Cailin’s arrangement with Celene. There was no way that Cailin, who had grown up with Anora and for all intents and purposes respected her as his wife and Queen, had told her father of his intentions but not her. Loghain was not likely to kill his own daughter, whatever the trap at the Denerim estate had seemed. Howe had been the loose cannon there, and the fact Ser Cauthrien had expected his death implied that Loghain and Anora had finally recognized him as a liability and arranged to have him desposed of in the most effective way. Such intrigues were beyond Loghain, who moved with a purpose and straightforward nature. But they were not beyond Anora, who had operated in the background in Cailin’s reign and would not be changing now. No, there really was no doubt, that at least on some level Anora remained allied to her father. If she wanted the throne, she may yet cast Loghain aside to keep it, but Eideann was not so sure yet. She did not know Anora well enough to make that judgment into her character. 

But that ignorance itself, the distance between them, served in her own interests as well. Anora had no idea that Eideann could play the political game as needed. She presumed her the younger daughter, the spare not the heir, the hot-headed Flame of Highever who was too busy running around in leathers with a dog to marry for the good of the realm. Anora was busy acting on the assumption that her political adversary was Arl Eamon, and her rival was Alistair. To her, Eideann was a potential ally, and a powerful one. 

She had given Eideann the opportunity to kill Arl Howe, fixing her own problems in the process and desposing of a lose end. And now, by suggesting she had been concerned, she was trying to ingratiate herself. She had, in her own way, assisted in the reclaiming of the Teyrnir of Highever. And now she planned to make that debt known, and call it in for the Landsmeet. 

A fair enough plan, and it may have even worked on someone who had not dealt with the nonsense Eideann had spent the past year confronting. But Eideann _had_ spent the past year confronting the political machinations of dwarves, dancing a step ahead of Loghain’s plans, and building an army on gumption and ancient words alone. 

Anora may be light, the shining star of Cailin’s reign of peace and glory, but they did not live in the age of peace and glory anymore. There was a Blight that had plunged Ferelden into darkness. Darkspawn teemed in all corners of the Deep Roads and poured onto the surface at the whims of Urthemiel. Light was not enough anymore. Eideann was the Flame of Highever, she had enough light of her own. But she also burned, and fire was what they needed to save Ferelden now. 

Anora was playing with fire now. And she would not win. Regardless who sat the throne in the end, Eideann would be the one to put them there. She just had to play her cards right.

She thought of Isabela and the Knight of Dawn and smiled.

“Can Loghain still take the throne without you?” she asked Anora quietly. She did as she had done with Arl Eamon, she pretended not to know. Anora, trusting that it was true that Eideann Cousland was not a political person, simply glanced back at her over her shoulder with a grim look.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly. “It will be more difficult for him, but if my father says the Grey Wardens are the enemy, many will believe him.” She turned back, hands clasped before her in the image of demure gentility. “You have only just arrived in the city, so perhaps you are unaware of some…recent events. Denerim has been in turmoil since Ostagar. Many people here are angry and grieving. Strangely, the unrest is worst in the Alienage. Few elves accompanied the army. They should have little reason to be upset. Which means that Howe and my father must have given them reason.”

Well that had been Vaughan’s fault, and it had happened right under her nose. And given the original details she had learned from the red-haired elf in the dungeons of the Denerim estate, Eideann believed their unrest entirely justified, as well as the anger at the abrupt military crackdown Howe had inspired.

“I don’t know what is happening there,” Anora said quietly, looking troubled. Eideann was not sure if that was true or not, or which would be worse. “But I am certain my father has his hands in it.”

“A useful lead, Anora,” Eamon replied quietly, “but you could have sent this information with your maid.” Eideann smiled. Eamon was a smarter man than that.

“That is true,” Anora replied curtly. “I feared for my safety as Howe’s prisoner, but to tell the truth I sent Erlina to you because I hoped we might join forces. I have evidence against my father. You need that evidence for the Landsmeet.” Her eyes flickered to Alistair a moment, and she pursed her lips. “But you also need a stronger candidate for the throne. You need _me_.” There it was. Eideann sighed, turning away and holding her arms about herself to peer into the cold fireplace as if it held the answers. 

“It sounds,” she said quietly, “more like you need us.” A powerful Teyrnir to stand against a powerful Teyrn. That was exactly what she needed. The Couslands were a greater family than the Mac Tirs. The only reason Anora and Cailin had wed at all was because of the timing, because of the fact that Loghain had been the Hero of River Dane, and theirs was a union meant to appease the hurting common folk of the land as well as the nobility beholden to Maric.

It had been a good plan, but like she already knew, the times had changed. This was no age of peace and glory. The respect of the people, nobility or commoner, had to be won by honor and the sword. 

“I have no doubt,” Anora said archly, “Alistair,” she said his name like a curse, “is biddable enough, and decent, but even with his blood, he is no king. You think only I can see it?” Eideann heard Alistair shuffle uncomfortably near the door, but she did not turn back.

“Anora, you may be Cailin’s widow, but – ” Eamon began, but Anora cut him off sharply.

“Do you know who I am?” she said, voice tinged with anger. “I am the daughter of Ferelden’s greatest General.” Yes, and it’s greatest traitor, but that aside, Eideann glanced back. “I am what Ferelden _needs_ , not an untrained king who does not even want the throne. Plus, Alistair is a Grey Warden. It will look like you are trying to put a Grey Warden on the throne, despite your claims.” Not exactly something new to consider, and Eideann had never claimed she was _not_ putting a Grey Warden on the throne. Truth often gave power. She knew full well that might make some people uncomfortable. But she had also known full well, as she had said to Duncan almost a year hence, that Grey Wardens were political beings, always, and it was not enough to assume that political beings were not also capable of wielding great political power. 

Regardless, she knew as well that Alistair was no king. He was a good man, gentle, kind, caring, and above all brave. He had lost his fair share of loved ones and freedom to the cause, and done so with silent acceptance for the most part. It did not take a tried King to be a good King. It only took someone willing to try. 

“I am a neutral party,” Anora said fiercely. “And I am already Queen.” There was a fine difference between Queen Regent and Queen Consort. She had been Queen Consort. The Landsmeet had chosen Cailin, not her. There was a quiet and slightly awkward silence before she sighed and Eideann turned to face her. Anora was watching her, trying to sway her of course, not anyone else. The Queen’s mouth was a thin line.

“Consider what I have said,” she told Eideann quietly. “For now, I think I will retire to my room. Lady Cousland, when you have a moment, I ask that you speak to me in private.” She gave a slight bow of head to Arl Eamon, then swept out without another glance to Alistair, Erlina on her heels. Eideann watched her go, then sighed, uncrossing her arms and carefully clasping her own hands in front of her, filling the space Anora had left with the power of another strong woman, a trick she had learned from her mother long ago when she had held salons with the Bannorn. 

_Assume the role,_ Eleanor Cousland had always said. _If you look like you belong in it, they will not question, but they will listen._

Eamon gave a sigh, leaning back against his desk and shaking his head.

“I cannot help thinking she may be trouble,” he admitted quietly, “but we should keep her close all the same. She’ll either be a powerful ally or a powerful enemy, and the sooner we know which she is the better. 

Anora did not need keeping. She needed manipulating. Eamon was not capable of either, when she had determined he was her primary rival in political intrigue. 

Eideann gave a very slight smile, raising her chin.

“She’s a powerful enemy, of course,” Eideann said, earning a look of surprise from him and Alistair both at the abrupt declaration. “But that does not mean we cannot make her sing our tune all the same.” After all, Anora’s game was simple. She wanted to be Queen, and Eideann had every intention of allowing her to continue that desire. 

The biggest hurdle she faced was the loyalists who believed Anora’s claim was boistered by Loghain’s presence. Turning Anora publicly on Loghain would ring the death knoll for his regency, regardless of who ended up as king or queen.

_Politics is not about trust,_ she thought again. _It is about both parties getting what they want. A dance of negotiation does not require you to like or trust another person. It only requires you understand they will act in their interests, and place yourself in a position to meet those interests._ She secretly thanked her father for that lesson and then sighed, glancing instead to the other occupant in the room. She sank into a seat before the fire in an armchair beside the other man, and leaned forward. 

Behind her, Arl Eamon excused himself, and Alistair shut the door.

“Riordan,” she said, quietly, and he just nodded again.

“I shall be fine. I am lucky you came when you did, and I am sorry for the trouble you suffered at Howe’s hands.” He sombered. “I have been told who you both are, of course. He considered them, first her, then Alistair, and drew a breath. “I…knew Duncan before he returned to Ferelden. We went through our Joining together.” He looked to the fireplace, still cold and empty. “I think he understood sooner then the rest of us how cruel a choice it is to let the few sacrifice for the many. He always left himself a soft spot for his recruits though. Only way he ever let himself down.”

“I was hoping,” Eideann said after a moment of quiet to remember Duncan for Alistair’s sake, “I could learn a bit more about Grey Wardens.” Riordan considered them again. 

“Well, I’d be happy to tell you what I know, but it seems you’ve picked up the important parts on your own,” he said with a soft smile. Eideann recognized the quiet resilience of Duncan in him, but this man was more willing to open up and talk. It felt like…a lighter duty. He met her eyes. “Be firm in your beliefs, protect people from their ignorance, and be as loyal as you can to your brothers, even knowing you’ll share their deaths.” The words hung over them a moment, and Eideann nodded.

Alistair came to lean his shoulder against the mantle, arms crossed. 

“Why has it been so long since the last Blight?” he asked quietly. It had been centuries since Andoral had laid waste to Antiva. 

“Archdemons don’t awaken on their own, you know,” Riordan chuckled, taking a drink from a cup of tea left for him. “With no one to lead the darkspawn, it is pure chance. What’s surprising isn’t that it has taken so long between Blights, but that they happen at all.” He narrowed his eyes, lowering his cup into both hands in his lap. “But I imagine the Old Gods call to them, and it is that voice in the darkness which drives them through so many generations.”

Eideann sighed, trying to work through a thousand different questions, and then deciding for the moment none of them really mattered. In the end she just rose, wishing Riordan well, and excusing herself to them both, leaving Alistair there to ask the questions he really wanted to know. He had thought of Duncan as a father, after all. And Riordan had known him far longer than they. 

She gathered the skirts of Alfstanna’s gown and made her way towards the guest wing and Arl Eamon’s finest chambers. Erlina was waiting there in the first room, and she simply waved her through with a solemn look. 

Anora was standing in the center of the drawing room, peering at her surroundings, but at Eideann’s approach, she looked back, a small smile flickering on her lips.

“Hello again, Warden,” she said quietly. “It is good you came to speak to me.” 

Eideann heard Erlina close the door behind her and fixed Anora with a look. The Queen turned, lacing her fingers together before her, and sank into a seat in one of the chairs gathered over a bear-skin rug. Eideann considered a moment, then sank into a seat as well, and Anora leaned forward then to pour them both a glass of sweet white wine. 

“First, let me say, I feel the loss of your family greatly. I was particularly fond of the Lady Eleanor, and Cailin was a childhood friend of your brother’s,” Anora began, and Eideann immediately went cold. “What Howe did was unforgiveable.” She let that sit a moment, then looked into the glass of wine she held. Eideann was watching her with cool eyes. “Let me be blunt,” the Queen said after a moment, looking up, eyes like steel. “I can see your voice will be a strong one in the days to come, and Eamon listens to you, with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne.”

Wasting no time then, it appeared, and beginning with the appeal of condolences for the Couslands. 

Eideann considered the woman sitting across from her, both of them holding glasses of wine in their laps, clad in gowns, steely eyes and blonde hair, both sitting there determined to have their way or no way, determined to win. They were not so different really. If Eideann were more a lady and less a soldier, with nicely done hair and prettier clothes, they could almost have passed for sisters. But it was there the similarities ended. 

How dare she think to coerce her by talking of her mother.

“Why,” Eideann said in a very quiet, low, dangerous sort of voice, “should I support you?” She settled into a war of attrition now, sipping carefully at her wine. Anora’s eyes flickered, and then she settled back with a cool stare, accepting the challenge she had laid down. 

Teyrn’s daughter and Teyrn’s daughter, locked in a battle of wills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eideann (image in an earlier chapter for those who are interested) does look a lot like a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Alfstanna. Alfstanna and Eleanor always struck me as very similar in the game, and Waking Sea is a pretty important Bannorn with strong ties to the Coastlands and the Alamarri traditions. The Coastlands are obviously part of the Teyrnir of Highever, which means local Banns are sworn to the Teyrn (in this case the Couslands). These Bannorn then, end up closely interlinked, probably through marriage. Eleanor had four siblings and her father was Bann of the Storm Coast, I decided that Alfstanna probably was a cousin of Eideann and Fergus, daughter of one of Eleanor's siblings. The Eremons have ruled Waking Sea for some time in lore, and Eleanor Mac Einraig wasn't the oldest child of Bann Fearchar of the Storm Coast. Given the age differences, I imagine Alfstanna and Irminric's mother is an older sister of Eleanor in this story. 
> 
> Also, I just found it ridiculous that Loghain's forces weren't watching Arl Eamon's estate after the arrest, since Loghain's supposed to be a strategic general, not an idiot. It didn't make sense for an escaped Warden fleeing Fort Drakon to just saunter back through the Market without anyone of Loghain's people stopping them.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann cuts a deal with Anora; the Grey Wardens deal with the fallout from the Arl of Denerim's estate and earn a few new allies; Eamon gives his opinion on Alistair as King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

“For years,” Anora said in a voice laced with iron, “I have ruled this kingdom as Cailin’s queen.” Eideann settled back in the chair, watching and waiting. “Cailin was a good man,” Anora told her, “but what is needed is not another good man, but a good ruler.” 

What they needed was both. Anora set down the glass, brushing her lilac silk skirts smooth across her lap.

“I need your support, Lady Eideann, and you will need mine.” Eideann glanced to the fire then, which was lit, and carefully sipped her wine, watching the flames dance a moment.

“I don’t think I’m as important as you believe,” she said quietly. 

“No?” Anora gave a soft laugh. “You are a Grey Warden, and despite the fact my father would paint himself as the only man who can stop the Blight, this is not so. Secondly, you saved Arl Eamon from a plot that no doubt had its roots in Arl Howe’s twisted little mind.” It did not slip past Eideann that Anora was aware of the plot at all, since word was only now starting to reach the ears of the nobility. But it was simply also foolish to assume Arl Howe would want to poison Arl Eamon at all. Arl Eamon, unlike everyone else Howe had injured, was not a threat to Howe’s ambitions. He was a threat to Loghain’s, with his letters to Cailin, and his Orlesian wife. Anora was watching her with that cool stare. “You are competent and powerful, and in the right place at the right time. Used to your advantage, these things could bring you far.” Eideann looked up, a small smile on her lips, and then she shook her head.

“You think you are a better candidate than Alistair?” she asked softly. “He’s Maric’s own son.” 

“Do you disagree?” she asked in return, still trying to decide what she thought of the Teyrna before her. Eideann could see the evaluation in her gaze. “You are a fellow Grey Warden,” the Queen said simply. “What do you think of Alistair’s potential to rule? Nevermind his willingness.” Eideann sighed, setting down the glass as Anora herself had done, and then folding her hands in her lap carefully. 

“It’s true, he probably isn’t the best suited,” she said simply. Alistair was no king, and he did not like to lead. But Anora had missed the true threat to him, and of that Eideann was glad. 

The Queen gave a small sigh and a smile, showing a little of the warmth that had earned her Cailin’s respect. 

“Alistair seems like a kind, well-meaning man,” she said, only complimenting him now he was not there. “These are admirable qualities, if not kingly ones. He also seems to be a fine Grey Warden – “ she fixed Eideann with a harder look – “which is exactly why he should remain one and serve the kingdom by defeating the darkspawn.” 

And then conveniently disappearing, if he was not killed in the attempt. Eideann was not a fool. She knew how this was going to end. 

“A kind king who is a fine warrior?” she said with a small look of reproach. Anora just gave a heavy sigh and rose from her chair to pace a little. Eideann was frustrating her, but she was also reaching the crux of the argument. Anora believed her simple enough to subscribe to old stories of glory and legend. She thought her the sort she could manipulate and use, if only she found the right angle. The idea she thought Eideann only as political as Eamon himself had believed her to be was a benefit. Eideann was glad of it. After all, the true threat behind Alistair’s claim was _her_.

“There are some who would follow Alistair out of his blood,” Anora admitted softly, “but others would see it as Eamon grabbing for power. Who else do you think Alistair would turn to for help?” Eideann considered the woman and said nothing, leaving her silence to seal Anora’s impression of her. “Eventually,” the Queen continued, talking with her hands, “the nobility would go back to fighting amongst themselves. Alistair’s weakness would destroy everything Maric built.” 

_Kindness and a lack of ambition is not a weakness._ Anora was dead wrong. Alistair was Maric’s son, and Maric had been a leader in a time of war. Cailin had inherited all of Maric’s fierce charisma, but Alistair had been the benefactor of all of his dedication. His methods were subdued, but they were still the echoes of Maric and the Theirin bloodline that had brought Ferelden together as one. Those values could not be tossed aside.

It was under Loghain, Anora, and Rendon Howe that the nobility had descended into chaos. Howe had kidnapped the scions of at least three houses of the Landsmeet: the boy Master Ignacio had allowed her to help rescue, Oswyn, and Irminric. Not to mention Vaughan Kendalls thrown in his own dungeon, or the murder of her own family prior to Ostagar, or the death of Lady Landra, Bann Loren’s son Dairren, and Arl Urien’s assassination. And then there was Eamon’s poisoning. Titles won by theft and slaughter were already a threat to the nation, and thus under her auspices, often by her father’s own command. 

Anora had all the airs to convince an untrained mind, but her words were deceptions. Eideann had made her judgments already. And the more she learned of Anora, the less she thought of her. 

“What’s your alternative?” she asked grimly, as if waiting for Anora to give her something convincing. Anora drew a self-satisfied breath.

“I am a great Queen and as beloved to my people as I love them. Ferelden needs an experienced leader to see it through the Blight. That is not Alistair.” Perhaps not, but it was not her either. “Thus,” she said grandly, “I say it again: I would welcome your support for the throne, if you would give it.” Eideann rose as well, meeting her eyes full on, and they stood, staring one another down across the bear-skin rug.

“Are you proposing an alliance?” she asked quietly. Compensation sealed a contract, after all. Nothing in noble circles was done on faith alone. Faith required trust. 

“When the time comes, you support _my_ bid for the throne,” Anora suggested. “In return, I add my voice to yours. Do you see? Together we can do what alone we _cannot_.

“I would need more than just your support,” Eideann replied firmly, crossing her arms. Anora smiled slightly.

“Once I am Queen, I will be a position to grant you whatever you wish. This is in addition to restoring Highever to you.” Eideann almost barked a laugh at the suggestion. On the one hand she had tried to leverage the argument that Grey Wardens like Alistair should not have titles, and then on the other she extends her hand to offer Eideann the title of Teyrna to a Teyrnir she already owned. “Alistair may promise the same, I suppose,” Anora admitted, recognizing Eideann’s dubious glance, “but which is better? The gratitude of a weak King, or the gratitude of a strong Queen? And even if it is not for you, think what I could do for the Grey Wardens. I trust I have made my point.” 

Eideann turned away and then glanced back, holding steady.

A lot of it was true enough, regardless of the coating of pretty gilded lies that she could see through. Really when it came to it, Anora did have the experience to rule, even if it had been a difficult last year without Cailin. Perhaps she had not done it alone before - Cailin had certainly held up his share - and perhaps she was an ambitious shrew determined to win her crown by any way possible. But she had a point about Alistair’s inability to lead. As a bastard son, his legitimacy was in question, and with Eamon behind him, there would always be those who saw it as a power play.

Eideann’s enemy was Loghain, and Loghain had support she had to undermine. Here was Anora, offering her that support, and all she had to do was agree to let her keep her throne. Do that, and she would turn on her father. Do that and the Landsmeet was all but won. 

Almost. 

There were still a few things yet to call in, and even if she made this agreement now, she would have to continue supporting Alistair’s claim until the actual decision itself, or else the Landsmeet would fall apart. That Landsmeet was vital in their confrontation with Loghain, and could not just collapse. It also held a weight on Anora, a tether to insure she was under control as well.

Eideann sighed, then bowed her head.

_You made a promise._ She meant to keep it. She always had.

“You’ll have my support in the Landsmeet.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Anora said, relief heavy in her voice. “We have a deal, Lady Eideann.”

Eideann just met her gaze, Cousland blue cool and stormy like the Waking Sea itself, and then gave a slight smile, rising slowly. And then she turned and swept out, Alfstanna’s gown pulling at the carpets in her wake. There was power in words unspoken.

Alistair was waiting for her in her chambers, despite what she had said about discretion before. She considered him and he gave a ghost of a smile, hidden under a sigh. 

“So,” he said, crossing his arms as she closed the door slowly behind her. The Cousland Blade and Maric’s sword lay on the bedding for her. He had returned them to her rooms for her after she had left them in Arl Eamon’s study. She gave him a grateful look and went to check them over. Also under the blades was a folded tunic, the one Alfstanna had taken to have washed. She touched the quilted silk and then smiled a little to herself before looking up to him. “I guess someone told Anora I was planning to steal her throne,” Alistair grimaced. “She has a nasty glare, and that look she gave me…colder than the ice at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” He sighed. “She wants to be Queen. I get it.” He shook his head. “I don’t trust her anymore than her father, but I get it.” Eideann looked to him sidelong, pulling her tunic into her hands, and then smiled slightly.

“You don’t have to trust her,” she said, but was proud of his instincts. “Anyway, you don’t think she should be Queen?” He sighed, uncrossing his arms and leaning his head on the top of hers, wrapping her into a large hug.

“No. She probably _should_ be, but it doesn’t mean she’s _going_ to be.” He shook his head and she felt the motion on her hair. “She’s smart. People say she’s ruled these past few years. And she’s her father’s daughter. _That’s_ the problem. People like her and her father always think they’re the only ones who can fix things.” He pulled back and gave her a wry look, and she knew he was talking a little about her too then. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, gentle and soft. “What do you think? When the Landsmeet comes, you might even have a say.”

She gave a soft chuckle, turning away.

“Why would they listen to me?” she asked and he shook his head, catching her hand and pulling her back.

“I think they’ll listen to the Warden-Commander,” he said, “and the Teyrna of Highever.” And then his smile slipped and his voice softened as he looked into her eyes. “The one who might just save this country yet.” 

Eideann decided she was still madly in love with him and pulled him down into a deep kiss, tasting his mouth on hers, and closing her eyes. They were behind closed doors. Let the servants disturb them if they dared.

When finally she pulled back, she moved to lace up his borrowed doublet while he watched her work. 

“I need you,” she explained quietly, “to do something again.”

“You always need me to do something. Always asking for things,” he teased, but sank back onto the bed, a knee on either side of her, and let his hands catch hold of her waist. “Your wish is my command, your Ladyship.” She smiled, shaking her head, then considered him.

“I have some official visits to make, and then we will be going into the Alienage to work out what in the Maker’s name as been going on in there. People need to see you doing good and fixing all the mess that has happened since Ostagar.” He gave a soft smirk.

“Fixing problems. That’s me.” 

“The Alienage is going to be a difficult case. It’s still morning yet, almost lunchtime, and I am fairly positive that there will be a handful of the nobility out about town for us to run into. That needs to be our priority for this morning, and then the Alienage once we’ve spread the word about Howe. If we don’t deal with the aftermath of the Denerim estate first, someone else will. We need to control that dialogue. Alfstanna’s help can only go so far.”

“That man we rescued, Bann Sighard’s son…He said he would tell his father.” Eideann nodded, catching his wrists gently, mindful of the chafing from the shackles. 

“Yes,” she said quietly, “and I want to make sure Bann Sighard will tell everyone else.” She turned and sank into a seat against his knee, and he wrapped an arm about her to hold her there. It was a nice feeling, just thinking things through in his arms. “The plan is three-fold,” she said simply, listing them off on her fingers. “First, we make sure that all those with cause to speak out against Loghain know they have that cause and are speaking against him. Those voices will gain attention where ours alone would not. Secondly, we find ways to convince those who are still hesitant that Loghain is a poor character and that you are not. We’ll do this in a couple of ways: we focus on the Blight, we appeal to the rule of law in regards to Irminric and Jowan, and we show them you aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. And thirdly, we turn Anora against Loghain.” He gave her a skeptic look when she glanced down to him, shaking his head.

“Not going to happen,” he said simply. She smiled.

“That last one is in my hands. And it already has.” He gazed at her a moment, then drew a deep breath.

“I’ve told you you scare me, right?” he finally said, and she smiled slightly. He pressed his forehead to her middrift then, sighing. “Do I even want to know how you managed that?”

“No,” she told him simply, because she did not want to tell him, did not want to ruin that moment, and could not explain it all to him now. 

So he finally nodded, and then pulled her down onto the mattress, catching her in another kiss and letting his hands slide over her torso a moment before pushing himself up.

“Alright then, your Ladyship. My presence is at your disposal.” She sighed, picking herself up, her smile slipping.

“Alistair, we can’t keep doing this. Not until…we just can’t.” He looked up a moment, peering at the ceiling like he had seen something very interesting, and then when he finally looked back to her, his eyes were open and raw with emotion, and his jaw was set.

“I know,” he told her quietly. “I just…Maker, every moment could be our last. It’s always been that way. I thought Ser Cauthrien intended to kill us.”

“She did,” Eideann said, refusing to spare him that. “But she couldn’t. Because we surrended.” He blinked, drawing a breath, eyes cold.

“You knew. That’s why you did it.”

“That among many reasons. A prison was preferable to a pike.” She brushed down her skirts and swept past him. “If we had fought, she could have legally killed us for resisting arrest. If we had fought, Loghain would have won. I couldn’t let that happen.” 

“This really is dangerous, isn’t it?” he asked quietly, like he had not realized it before. She met his eyes.

“If we fail, one or both of us may lose our heads,” she told him, nodding quietly, and he looked away, gritting his teeth. 

“Right. Then let’s do this. No more playing around.” He glanced back to her beseechingly. “If you’re really trying to set me up as some King, I’ll do what you need me to, Eideann. But I can’t do this alone, you know.” She nodded.

“I know,” she told him quietly, reaching to catch his hand and hold it in her own. “And I promise you won’t.” 

***

The tavern was crowded with nobles gathering over the news of the raid on the Denerim estate. Eideann could hear the din of voices, but above it all was the lilting lute of a song she knew: Leliana’s song she had been performing in Redcliffe. The bard had been busy, making sure everyone knew it. Subliminal messaging, of course.

They found Alfstanna there, angrily describing what had happened to Irminric to a group of Banns from the northern Bannorn. 

And they also find Bann Sighard of Dragonspeak, who caught Eideann by the arm as she almost missed him, pulling her over to his table with a look of gratitude.

“Lady Cousland,” he said, eyes full of thanks. “My son…Oswyn is safe, thanks to you.” His eyes slipped to Alistair. “To you both. I owe you his life.” Eidean shook her head as he bent over her hand to kiss it before straightening.

“I would leave no man to suffer at Arl Howe’s hands,” she told him quietly, her voice stony. Bann Sighard looked like he had had a difficult evening the night before.

“When I saw my poor boy’s legs…I only wish Howe were alive so I could kill him myself.” He sighed. “I would take up arms against his son, but Oswyn tells me Thomas had no part in it.” 

“That remains to be seen, Bann Sighard,” Eideann said coldly. 

“Is there anything you would ask in reward for saving Oswyn?” He had taken both her hands in his now, beseechingly. She simply held them back, courteous and gentile and full of regality like her mother had always appeared.

“I need no reward for saving him, Bann Sighard,” she insisted, shaking her head. “That he has his life and is safe is reward enough.” Bann Sighard grimaced.

“Know that I will stand behind you at the Landsmeet, Teyrna Cousland, with all the support I can muster,” he insisted, eyes flickering between Alistair and Eideann. “In fact, I’m taking my supper with Bann Reginelda of White River Bannorn later today. I’ll speak to her about this at once.” He released her hands, gave another bow, and then let her go, turning back to his colleagues who were now watching Eideann and Alistair with grim faces, curious. 

About them, the muttering was equally informative. 

“Bryland must be pleased. That half-blood is cold as the mountains.”

“Did they not serve together in the war?”

“I can hardly speak ill of the sense of conscience of any man simply for wishing Rendon Howe dead. You’ve met him. The man made vipers seem personable.”

Howe’s fall was in their favor, it seemed, and she searched for Arl Bryland amidst the crowd. Leonas Bryland had been like a brother to her own father. She would have his vote the moment she could tell him of Loghain’s treachery against Highever.

 

Bryland was a tall, thin man with tired eyes. Half Orlesian with Free Marcher cousins, he had a quieter demeanor and the world-weary look of a man who had travelled too much and learned all the world was ultimately the same. But he remained imposing, and this was a man who had known her when she was still a child in torn skirts with leaves or straw in her hair, running about poking the serving boys with sticks. What he thought of her now, she did not know. At her approach, his collection of Banns bowed, but he simply stayed stoic, and she swept a curtsy to him instead. 

“Arl Bryland,” she said softly. 

“Bryce’s youngest,” he said quietly. “I always knew you were trouble.” But he gave a slight bow then, and she smiled ever so slightly at the distinction. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, Eideann.” He was smiling slightly now as well. “And I hear we have you to thank for ridding us of that snake in the grass?” 

“Howe was responsible for the murder of my family,” Eideann told him in quiet tones, smile gone.

“Rendon Howe,” Bryland assured her in a cold voice, “was no friend of mine. The boy I knew died at the Battle of White River. That the man didn’t die years ago is the only thing worth mourning here.” Eideann breathed a sigh of relief, and he looked her over. “Bryce would be proud of you, I think. You’re every inch the Teyrna he always knew you could be, and considering how the others have turned out…” hegave a soft chuckle, look hopeless. “Habren has done nothing since we arrived except spend coin on herself. If we stay in Denerim much longer, I’ll have to send her to a cloister.” Eideann smiled, remembering, and his smile faded as he considered her. “I have heard dark rumors, Lady Eideann, as far back as Ostagar and more…And they say you are one of the Grey Wardens now, as well.”

“I am,” she told him, eyes going cold. “I am Warden-Commander Cousland of Ferelden, and I am trying to gather support to battle the Blight. Teyrn Loghain is standing in my way, and the Blight is almost here.” Bryland gave a heavy sigh, then nodded.

“South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens, Eideann. I owe that to your father, and I refuse to believe that Loghain is the only one who can stand against it. He hasn’t even raised an army, and the other was lost at Ostagar.” 

“I have raised an army, your grace,” Eideann said flatly. “And I need only the royal forces to make it complete. I will battle the darkspawn, face the Archdemon, and end the Blight. And the sooner this nonsense is settled and Loghain’s regency brought to an end, the better.” Bryland nodded, his eyes slipping to Alistair.

“And you must be Maric’s younger son?” he asked simply, voice tired. Eideann was glad he had not said bastard, but Arl Bryland for all his severity was a subtle sort of man. Alistair gave him a soldier’s bow as he had done Alfstanna, and Eideann was glad of it, because it sent a few titters through the other Banns, enamored by his rustic sort of charm. No sweeping courtesies and formal bows here. He was a soldier, or nothing at all. Let them see it all. 

“You have the look,” Bryland said, considering him a moment. “Except for the eyes. Your mother’s eyes, boy.” Alistair stared back, saying nothing, and Bryland raised his chin. “You think you would be a better King than Anora is a Queen?”

“I think Anora has never led forces to battle darkspawn,” Alistair said quietly. “I was raised as a Templar, your grace. I’m a veteran of Ostagar, and of the Deep Roads, and Eideann is correct when she says we have an army. We need only for Denerim to turn and face this Blight.” His look was hard, and Bryland considered him a moment, solemn eyes evaluating his worth as a man. And then he drew a breath.

“And if it doesn’t? If you lose the Landsmeet?”

“Assuming no one has my head beforehand,” Alistair said simply, “I will fight the Archdemon alone if need be.” 

“Not alone,” Eideann clarified, her eyes fierce.

“Maker’s blood,” Bryland laughed, shaking his head. “The pair of you…like old war friends. You put the rest of us to shame.” His eyes were hard like flint and he considered his Banns a moment before nodding to himself. “Well, Prince Alistair, I can promise you South Reach. If the weight of the Couslands is cast behind you, that’s worth enough for me.” He gave Alistair a small bow, the formal kind, not the soldier’s kind, and Eideann curtsied before drawing away.

_Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, Bann Teagan of Rainesfere, Teyrna Cousland of Highever, Bann Sighard of Dragonspeak, Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea, Bann Reginelda of White River, Arl Bryland of South Reach, Arl Wulff of West Hills, whichever noble it was whose son she helped to save…_

She did the math in her head, trying to work out who was left, who would still have an impact. There were two Teyrnirs, Highever and Gwaren, the heart of the conflict now. Of the six Arlings, she had three already, Edgehall remained disputed, and Denerim and Amaranthine were vacant. Thomas Howe would not make it to Denerim in time for the Landsmeet to cast his vote as long as they moved quickly. The most important Bannorns were secure, the most part, by allegiances with South Reach, Amaranthine, Highever, and Gwaren, though she would sway those that lay outside those boundaries. While the City of Amaranthine had prospered under the Howes, the Freeholders were still beholden to Highever and that meant her.

She smiled to herself slightly and glanced to Alistair. He caught her look and gave her a quizzical stare. She just shook her head and kept the numbers to herself. Banns could be prickly, and some may yet rebel. They needed to court them away from Loghain, particularly those under the auspices of Gwaren, or those in the central Bannorn who had felt the worst of the Orlesian Occupation and witnessed firsthand the atrocities Loghain claimed to stand against. But on the whole, Freeholders chose which Bann or Arl to follow, and only South Reach had Banns to satisfy. The Banns and the Arls rose Teyrnirs, and the Couslands had held theirs for centuries because they had earned it generation after generation. 

The Teyrnir of Highever and the power of the Couslands came from that choice. Generation after generation had chosen to give stewardship of the entire north of Ferelden to the Couslands, and at one time that even included Denerim itself. Gwaren had a more difficult history. Gwaren was the original ancestral seat of the Theirins, and Maric had given it to Loghain as reward for River Dane. Loghain’s support base really was nowhere near Gwaren itself, and while the Mac Tirs had certainly done no harm there, they were not connected with the land as the Couslands were to Highever. The Mac Tir line had once been Freeholders under Bann Loren of Caer Oswin after all, and Bann Loren had sworn himself to Highever long ago. 

Of the Teyrnirs, then, the Couslands alone had the true weight to command vast swathes of land. In fact, the only Teyrnir to stand above Highever in the history of Ferelden was a Teyrnir in name only: the entire kingdom of Ferelden itself. The King was a Teyrn for all intents and purposes, master of all lands and none, chosen in the Landsmeet by majority to rule over Ferelden as protector and steward. 

And Eideann had enough names now to win that vote. 

She had not lied when she had told Alfstanna and Alistair that the king or queen did not really matter. The Landsmeet was the forum of the king’s justice, of Ferelden law. Her Teyrnir was truly the only thing that could confront Loghain, and once Loghain fell, there would be no other Teyrnir to speak. Highever would command the majority of Ferelden, and she herself would be Kingsmaker, just as she had been in Orzammar. 

So it really came down to winning the support to topple Loghain, and with Anora in her pocket, she was confident of that.

For the first time in a long time, she could see the clouds clear on the horizon. And with the Banns and Arls beginning to respond to Alistair’s claim, the Landsmeet almost had the legitimacy to settle the dispute once and for all.

And then it would only be the Blight.

But she had an obligation to Ferelden too. As Teyrna of Highever, her duty was clear: she could not leave Ferelden with a King or Queen that could not rule. Whatever she thought of Anora, the woman had the political knowledge to make the kingdom run. She just lacked the charisma to lead. As for Alistair, he had Maric’s determination, and the long shadow of the Theirin name to command respect and devotion, but none of the political acumen that was necessary to a functioning country. Whatever the outcome of the Landsmeet, Ferelden would be weakened by the Blight, and vulnerable, and as much as Loghain’s paranoia had set them back, he was right to fear Orlesian occupation in the wake of the Blight. It had been a mere two decades since they had taken their lands back, and in those two decades, Orlais had not been silent. Instead, they had waited, biding their time across the border, watching for an opportunity. Empress Celene was no fool, and she had expansionist ideals as almost all Orlesians did. The end of the Blight would need to include a strong monarchy, and neither Alistair nor Anora could do it alone.

A good ruler and a good man. The country needed both.

That was a truth she just could not escape.

As she made her way from the tavern back to Arl Eamon’s estate, she caught Alistair watching her warily. What he was thinking, she did not know, but it was obvious in his gaze there was something there that had been absent before: a strange admiration, like he were looking at a completely different person from the Eideann Cousland he had known this past year. He had no idea how political she could truly be, perhaps, or the extent of her familial and political relations that tied her intimately and intricately to the lifeblood of the Ferelden nobility. It was a respect in his eyes, and a slight fear, like he realized now she was dangerous, and just how dangerous she was, like he understood why Duncan had chosen her as a Grey Warden when he could have had anyone else. She had been correct that day at Ostagar, when she had confronted Duncan about his motivations for recruiting her. He had needed that political leverage that a Teyrn’s daughter provided. 

Eideann’s political skills came from a lifetime of training at her mother’s instruction, her father’s knee, Alduous’s lessons – the wisdom of the Circle in one tedious old man. Her power was the might of the Couslands and the Teyrnir of Highever, and she was in every way the equal of Loghain Mac Tir. He perhaps had not truly recognized that fact before, but she stood there bearing the same title, the diplomatic and military victories of the past year under her belt no small feat. She commanded the allegiance of Lords and Ladies, even young and new to it as she was, and had earned the respect they showed, through deeds and determination and a warrior’s discipline. 

And she had chosen him. He was the one she stood beside. She had promised Cailin, that night so long ago. 

_The Couslands have stood with the Theirin line since the Alamarri Accords. That will not change with me._

She would keep that promise, and the one to Duncan too. She would throw all that power, all that weight behind the Theirin bloodline, and then she would wield it all against the Blight. And when she was done, when the dust cleared, Ferelden itself would still stand, even if it cost her everything she was to do it.

***

It was early evening by the time they returned to Arl Eamon’s estate, too late to do much for the Alienage. Eideann decided they would go first thing in the morning instead. 

That left them a few hours before dinner in which to work through their plans for the Landsmeet. Eideann was exchanging some hushed words with Leliana in the small library, and Zevran was bent over a chessboard before Wynne, musing over his next move with a grin on his face while Oghren drunkenly gave his terrible input and muttered about Wynne’s bosom. Sten, in his curious way, was watching, while pretending not to watch. Even Shayle had managed to get through the library door and was standing in the flickering of the fireplace when Alistair joined them. And Morrigan was sitting on her own in the corner, perusing her mother’s spellbook again. 

Eideann was, he decided, a little unnerving. When he had first met her, he had assumed she was some arrogant noble who looked down on everyone and thought herself above everyone, and in some ways that appeared true. Or at the very least it appeared she wanted it to seem true. 

Denerim was awkwardly full of those sorts of nobles already. But Eideann was not one of them. None of the other nobles were planning on stalking out in Grey Warden armor to demand that guardsmen throw open the Denerim Alienage gate. None of the others were querying the elven servants, many of whom had not been allowed to go home to the Alienage and their families, about the situation at hand. Doing so had earned her some loyalty from them, and he was glad to see it. After their experience with the Dalish, the Alienage was more of a shock.

The Uprising had happened shortly before the battle of Ostagar, after Arl Urien’s departure. From what they had been able to learn, the revolt had been the work of agitated elves enraged by Vaughan Kendalls abduction of elven maids on a wedding day no less, which had resulted in a number of deaths and the arrest of several elves responsible for trying to reach the girls. After the incident, Arl Rendon Howe had been brought in, and he had sent troops into the Alienage. The smoke and the burning had filled the sky. The Orphanage had been set aflame, many of its occupants – mere children – slaughtered. And in the wake of the crack-down the guard had sealed the gates, spreading a story of plague. 

Alistair listened grimly to the stories and then insisted on going with her when Eideann said she would personally investigate. After all, the rumors said the plague was a form of Blight. And really, when it came down to it, the Blight was not going to hurt either of them. 

Not yet anyway.

He felt a little strange in the aftermath of her politicking at the tavern. He felt like she had won some victories, and he did not quite understand them all. Arl Leonas Bryland seemed more than happy to throw his weight behind them, and from the look of his Banns, they all appeared ready to follow suit. Bann Sighard had been greatful enough to promise Eideann his support, but he did not know who she was. Bann Alfstanna had been spreading the word of her bother, and with the Chantry on their side, it appeared like they would win.

But Eideann was still holding something back. If they were ready to win, delaying was a problem, and Anora was still likely to support her own father, which also remained a problem. She had told him not to worry about that, but how could he not? If they lost, he had no false expectations about keeping his head. If they lost, he was the threat there, and that could cost them all.

It was a dangerous game, and Eideann as ever was making them dance to her tune. 

So when she finally pulled away from Leliana, he caught her by the arm and fixed her with a look.

“I need to talk to you,” he murmured, and she considered the others in the room before nodding. She walked with him to the far end of the library, taking some sort of privacy behind a row of low bookshelves. She looked nervous, and he felt nervous, and the pair of them together probably did not inspire any confidence. “About earlier today,” he began, but she shook her head.

“We have enough support, unless we factor in rebellious Banns. I’ve earned Anora’s cooperation as well. But we still need to prove with evidence beyond a doubt that Loghain has been undermining the security of Ferelden,” she told him, as if it would answer all his questions. It did not. Not really. He shook his head.

“I’m not going to pretend that this all makes sense. You’re the one who knows how this all works…when you need someone to hit something, let me know.” She smiled slightly, then sighed, and he shook his head. “I get what you’ve been saying. About us. Arl Eamon wants to make me King at the Landsmeet. And you won’t give me a straight answer on that no matter how many times I ask you. I never ever wanted that, not in my wildest dreams, but I won’t refuse it if it’s for the good of the nation.” He met her gaze. “Eideann, I love you. You know that right?” She nodded softly and he reached to take her hand in his, watching his fingers fold around hers. “But I have no idea what being King will mean for us. I’ll have ot think about that.”

Eideann’s fingers on his jaw were soft and gentle, and she guided his face up to meet his eyes. 

“If we care about each other,” she said softly, firmly, “that’s all that matters.” As if it were so simple. Maker, he wished it were true. But he smiled, nodding and pressing his forehead to hers.

“I don’t intend to do anything to jeopardize _that_ ,” he promised. “Trust me.” 

“I do trust you. I always have,” she told him.

At dinner, her smiles were gone, and she was all business. Anora sat on one side of Arl Eamon, in the place of honor reserved for a Queen. But Eideann sat on the other side, in the position of the Military Commander, and that seemed fitting. He sat beside her, technically her second-in-command anyway, and picked at his food, trying to ignore Anora’s cold look.

There was something victorious in her eyes now. And he did not like that one bit.

She was right, Anora. He was not a political man. He had none of the training everyone else in that sphere had had. He acted on what he felt, and he could not play politics with people. He was too honest, driven by a desire to do what was right. At the core of it, he lived a life of service, a soldier’s life, not a noble’s. A King could not rule by goodwill alone. He was worried that in setting him up to take the throne, Eamon was dooming Ferelden. He would mess it up, all of it. 

Eideann still would not tell him what she had decided, but he did not like the way Anora watched him like a cat stalking a mouse. He was worried. 

Anora pushed herself up, excusing herself, and they watched her go. Only Eamon rose to give her a bow of courtesy. The rest of them just kept their seats as she swept out, Erlina in her wake.

Eideann cut through the tension then, reaching to pour herself some cool wine from a jug at the center of the table before the servants – Maker’s breath, he would never get used to that idea – could do so instead. He was grateful she had done it herself. She did not have a maid either. The only times he had seen her not dress or undress herself was when Leliana had her in that gorgeous gown she had apparently made, and when he himself had been pulling her out of her clothes. 

Eideann was Highever, simple and strong and ancient, the wind on the cliffs and the storms on the coast. The rest was nonsense she swept away. 

“What do you think is going on in the Alienage?” she asked after sipping her wine. Her eyes were that cool calculating look again, like she had given them in the Deep Roads, or wandering the elven ruins in the Brecilian Forest. Arl Eamon, beard trimmed and neat, considered her a moment, then shook his head.

“Maker knows what Loghain is capable of now,” he lamented quietly. “Be careful how much trust you place in Anora. I do not think she will actively work to give up her power. Still, I would rather have her where we can watch her than actively working for Loghain.” Something flickered in Eideann’s gaze, like a smile she secreted away, and Alistair peered at her a moment. Arl Eamon sighed. “Anora was a capable administrator with Cailin alive,” he admitted, “but she has not a drop of royal blood.” 

Eideann’s laugh was soft a clear across the table, startling some of the others further down. 

“Alistair’s mother was a scullery maid,” she said frankly, and Alistair felt his ears burn. “Royal blood may be of some note, but I hardly think it’s the end of the conversation, Arl Eamon.”

“Thanks,” Alistair muttered turning away. He felt her gaze settle on him.

“I wish there had been more time to instruct you in politics,” Eamon said after a moment. “I did my best, but…we all hoped Cailina nd Anora would secure the succession.” Alistair ignored that, drinking a large swallow of his own wine and refusing to make eye contact. “For four hundred years, Calenhad’s scions have ruled,” Eamon continued. “ _That_ is the heritage we protected from the Orlesians. Without that to unite us, we scatter back to warring Teyrnirs.” Alistair set down his glass, looking up at them both, but particularly irritated with Arl Eamon. Whatever they thought he was, he was not Calenhad, nor was his any of those other Kings that came after him, and he also was not his father. He was Alistair, just Alistair, and lamenting over the loss of some dying bloodline was stupid. 

“If Anora’s turned against Loghain,” he said with a note of anger in his voice, “I say let her keep the crown.” 

“With a few months of experience, Alistair will make a fine King,” Eamon told Eideann as if Alistair himself were not even there. “He knows how to lead troops to defend his land. He knows how to stand and fight for justice. He knows how to show compassion to those less fortunate, and how to trust to the Maker’s guidance to know right from wrong.” Alistair felt that settle in him and realized Arl Eamon was actually speaking his thoughts, not trying to manipulate him at all.

He grimaced. 

“And,” Eamon added, eyes flickering between them both, “he knows who to turn to for aid should that training fail him.” He gave Alistair a slight smile over his wine glass. “He will be fine.” Eideann kept her eyes demurely on his plate, but Alistair had no hesitation who he would be turning to for political advice if they did make him King. Arl Eamon was a good man, certainly, and had been loyal to the cause at least. But the one who had stood by him and lead them this far was Eideann Cousland, and _that_ was who would have his ear in truth. If Arl Eamon knew as much, he did not suggest it, but Alistair was not sure if the Arl actually had any idea at all of the amount of political know-how Eideann had managed to display those last few days alone. 

The mention of their planned deaths by Ser Cauthrien had shook him, but Eideann had seen through it almost immediately. She read the political battlefield as she read the actual battlefield. And that still scared him. Whatever Eideann decided, whoever she put on the throne, he would accept it. He trusted her. 

Frankly, she should be the bloody Queen and let that be that. After all, the Couslands were as old a family as the Theirins, and demanded as much respect, if not more. If it really came down to it, let her win the bloody Landsmeet, and he’d be the first to bend the knee.

He sighed, taking another swallow of his wine, and grimaced. The Landsmeet could not end soon enough.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair, Eideann, Zevran, and Wynne help break up a slaver's ring; Alistair questions Eideann's decisions; Alistair agrees to help Ser Otto to purge the demons in the Alienage Orphanage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence (gore - Alienage Orphanage)
> 
> Comments always welcome.

At the Alienage gate, Eideann forced the guard to open the portcullis, threatening him with a number of different rules and regulations and finally her swords – the Warden ones again now. He had finally relented, because he was fairly certain Eideann was serious, and even Alistair could not have told him otherwise. Eideann’s eyes were sharp and angry as they crossed the bridge and entered the battered, tumbledown collection of buildings sealed amidst walls that served as the home of the elves in the city. 

The difference was incomprehensible. Filth was piled in the streets. People appeared to be washing clothes in puddles. And in the center of it all, at the gnarled roots of a twisting tree, a crowd was gathered, angry and fearful. 

“Ahh, the Alienage,” Zevran said quietly, his look somber. “They’re the same everywhere, aren’t they?” Alistair glanced back to him.

He had a grudging respect for Zevran. Eideann’s decision to spare him had appeared to have paid off. With the Antivan Crows settled and the amount of effort the elf had put in on their behalf in all their endeavours, Alistair had to admit he had earned a measure of trust. But he was still an assassin, jaded and cool, and for all he seemed to know what Eideann was thinking before she said it, he remained distant in many ways. 

They had also brought Wynne, since she was a healer and rumors of a plague meant the area was in desperate need of help. The old woman considered the broken cobblestones before her and looked weary and sad.

“Life must be…hard here,” she said quietly. Eideann just nodded grimly, nudging Angus forward. The dog was giving a low growl in his throat at something he had smelled. 

The place was quiet aside from the mob in the center, too quiet. No children ran in the streets, laughing and playing. No one was about business. It was disconcerting.

But there was one small girl, blonde hair in braids behind her elven ears, sitting with her back to the wall weaving grass into plaits in her lap. She considered them with a quiet look, wary of strangers.

“Hello,” Alistair tried, crouching to talk to her where she sat. “Who are you?” The girl looked at him warily, then turned away a moment. Eideann had hold of Angus’s collar, and when the girl decided the dog was not a threat, she glanced back.

“Amethyne,” she told him.

“Where are all the other children, Amethyne?” he asked. Her face fell a little and she focused on the grass braid in her lap.

“The Orphanage is gone. They keep taking people away.” She gave a soft cough and then looked up, eyes wide. “There’s nobody to play with me anymore.” He sat back, looking to Eideann, who was staring at the girl with haunted eyes.

“What about your parents?” Wynne asked quietly.

“Papa died a long time ago,” the elven girl said, then looked up. “Mama went to Highever. She said she’d bring me back a present. I wonder what it will be.” 

“What was your mother’s name, Amethyne?” Eideann asked quietly, and the little girl looked to her a moment, then bit the inside her of lip. 

“Iona. She was a serving maid for Lady Landra,” she said softly. Eideann looked away, and Alistair watched her a moment, then reached to the pouch tied to his belt and dug out some coins. 

“Here,” he told Amethyne, pressing the money into her hand. “Take this, and don’t spend it all at once. Stay safe.” He rose and Amethyne watched him with wide eyes, clutching the crowns tight. Alistair nudged Eideann away, breaking her staring, and shook his head. “Her mother isn’t coming back, is she?” he asked in a low voice so Amethyne could not hear as they slipped away. Eideann just shook her head, grim-faced.

“Come on, I want to know what this mob is about.” 

They crossed the square, avoiding dead hounds and filth piled high in the walls. The entire place felt…wrong. He could feel magic, somewhere, but not activre, more like shadows of what had been before. He did not like it one bit.

“How can you be here?” a red-haired elf was crying out over the mob. “How many of our brothers and sisters and children have these men already taken? If you’re really so worried about this plague, go home! Crowding around here is what will make you sick!” She was shouting through the mob at a handful of humans standing guard at the door to one of the derelict buildings, clearly on guard. Some of the humans were armored in dark-tinted plate mail, armed to the teeth. But others were in robes of satin and silk, wide pauldrons garnished with black feathers that made him think a moment of Morrigan – not a nice combination – and coats with jagged tails. Tevinters. Tevinter mages no less.

He was immediately on guard, and so, it appeared, was Wynne, who narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

But it seemed the mob itself was less focused then it had at first appeared. Several of the elves turned on the red-headed woman who had spoken, anger on their faces.

“I’ve got children at home! I can’t wait out here for another day!” one said sharply.

“So go home!” the first woman declared. “The best thing you can do for your children is not trust these charlatans!” She pointed at the Tevinters. One of the mages stepped forwards, hair slicked back from his face with oils. He considered the crowd calmly.

“Everyone remain calm. We will help as many as we can today, so long as we can do this in an orderly fashion.” 

“Oh you’re helping us, are you, shem?!” the red-haired girl cried angrily. “Like Valendrian and my Uncle Cyrion, you helped them, didn’t you? Helped them never to be seen again!” The Tevinter stepped down from the wooden porch and gave the girl an impatient glare.

“We’ve explained this to you before, girl. More whining will not persuade us to let you into the quarantine to carry plague back out into the Alienage.” 

“Quit trying to get us all killed, Shianni,” another elf shot back, shaking his head. “Some of us have still got things to live for!” 

“If this spell of theirs works,” Shianni shot back, hands on her hips, “why are half the people they quarantine perfectly healthy?” Eideann cut in then, stepping between them.

“I have a Spirit Healer who can see to any sick right here if need be,” she said firmly, and Wynne began to work her magic on those that crowded about her. Meanwhile, Eideann turned to the red-haired woman, and Alistair kept a close watch on the Tevinters. “What’s going on?” 

Shianni gave her a dark glare, crossing her arms.

“What’s wrong, shem?” she spat angrily. “Did you get bored and want to see the elves die of plague.” Then she blinked, dropping her arms to her side and glancing between them with a look of recognition and horror at the symbol emblazoned on their armor. “I know you. You released my cousin Soris from the Arl’s prison.” The other red-haired elf they knew. Convenient bit of luck there, but Alistair was not going to complain. “These people say they have a spell to stop the plague, but everyone they help disappears.”

“That’s not true, Shianni!” an elderly woman said sharply. “Both my sisters had the Tevinter spell cast on them and now they’re fine.” Shiana glared at her.

“Where’s your neice then? And my Uncle Cyrion? And Valendrian?” 

“Where did this plague come from?” Eideann said shortly, heading them off again. The filth in the slum and no doubt helped it spread, but there had to be a source somewhere.

“From the Blight. That’s what they say anyway. These men from Tevinter said they have a spell that prevents people from getting it, but it doesn’t work if you’re already sick.” Shianni gave them a desperate look. “Many of the people they quarantine aren’t sick. One of them was our hahren, Valendrian. And I don’t know what we’re going to do if we don’t get him back.” Eideann glanced to Alistair, who narrowed his gaze.

“I think,” she said after a moment, “it’s time we take a look inside this hospice.” Alistair was inclined to agree. He would not normally be so eager to break through a quarantine, but if it did in fact come from the Blight, Eideann and he would be fine, and if it was not a plague at all and something rather more secretive…

He did not like the thought of disappearing elves. 

“They won’t just _let_ you in,” Shianna said flatly. Eideann gave a small smile, shaking her head.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” she replied. Alistair crossed his arms, eyeing up the Tevinter soldiers at the door.

“They won’t just stand aside, you know,” he told Eideann who just nodded, then glanced to Wynne. “Eideann, I don’t want this to come to blows on the street. These people are desperate and frightened.” She gave him a firm look, and he read her intent there. 

“I know,” she told him quietly. “Wynne, let’s go and see if they’ll be willing to talk magic.” The elderly mage looked solemn, and gave her own nod. 

“I’d like to know more about it myself,” she replied. 

The enchanter standing on the porch considered them with narrowed eyes and a grim look like he was quickly running short of patience. He held up a hand as they approached, shaking his head.

“Some of these people are carrying the plague,” he told them. “The Alienage is not safe for visitors.” Eideann smiled slightly.

“Aren’t _you_ afraid of getting the plague?” she asked him, voice that quiet, dangerous tone she sometimes drew upon.

“If we did not know how to prevent the plague we would not be here now,” the Tevinter explained. Wynne stepped forward, both hands on her Senior Enchanter staff, considering him.

“What school of magic is this?” she asked. :The Circle knows of no way to full prevent plague.” 

“We are not authorized to share the secrets of our Circle,” the mage said curtly. “You’ve already been told to leave. Please do not waste anymore of our time.” Wynne glanced to Eideann, eyebrow quirked, and Eideann looked to Alistair, who drew his sword and shield and turned to guard her back as her own blades slid free.

“Step back,” Eideann warned them, giving them one chance to run. Most of the crowd took the warning, scattering into the Alienage. And then there was the tickle of magic that crept up Alistair’s skin. He reacted.

His smite brought the first Tevinter to his knees, and shot the magic from the second like he were winded. Zevran went for one, Alistair for the other, and Eideann, Wynne safe behind her, turned to face the soldiers that converged on them from their posts. 

Tevinter mages had little experience with true Templars, it appeared, and they fell to his blade and Zevran’s in moments, unable to react with their powerful magic. The soldiers proved a bit more of a challenge, but even they were poorly equipped to face down a group that had traversed the Blighted Bannorn both aboveground and below. They soon fell as well. 

The elves, watching in panic, were silent, staring, when all was said and done. Eideann simply knelt and pulled the key to the hospice from a chain about the neck of the Tevinter mage who had tried to drive them off. She tossed it to Wynne who caught it and turned to the lock. Eideann, hands loose on the swords in her hands, caught sight of the red-haired elf Shianni, and then gave her a curt nod before turning back to Wynne.

The inside of the hospice was empty. There were no elves under quarantine, no doctors, nothing. Only a few soldiers that they dispatched as quickly as they had the others. And of course a desk with a sizeable pile of coins and a rolled document which Alistair unfurled and considered darkly. 

“Bring 8 males and 6 females,” he said out loud, his voice disgusted. “What is this?” 

Angus was sniffing about the room, and paused at a closed doorway before giving a sharp bark. Eideann went straight to it and kicked in the door without hesitation. 

There were no Tevinters within, only elves locked in cages, with chains hanging from the ceiling and hooks on the walls, and coiled whips on a table stained with blood. The elves looked worse for wear, like they had suffered the end of those whips enough, and one sported a black eye.

“Help us! Please!” he cried, realizing who they were by the emblem on their Grey Warden breastplates. “We’re not sick! Let us out of here!” Zevran was at the locks in an instant. Eideann waited even less time. She broke the lock with her blade, sending sparks flying as the metal pried loose, and then hauled the cage open. 

“Thank you,” the man said, catching a woman in the cage with him and helping her out onto the floor.

“What happens to the people they take?” Eideann said with an urgency that put Alistair on edge. 

“I don’t know,” the elf said, truth ringing in his apologetic tone. Eideann nodded, then motioned for them to go. Her eyes were narrow as she looked to them all then.

“This is a slaver’s ring,” she said in a cold voice. “Vaughan’s actions led the the Uprising, which Howe put down with violence at Loghain’s orders, going so far as to massacre an entire orphanage, and now we have an outbreak of plague? If Loghain is complicit in this, I will see him die for it.” She was genuinely angry. Ferelden had no slaves. Even Zevran looked angry. Alistair crossed to the other room, motioning to a second door which they shortly discovered disappeared into a back-alley. 

“That way,” he said. “It’s East. It has to let out at the docks somewhere.” Eideann just nodded and motioned for him to take the lead. 

It was a different experience, being the one to take charge. She was not surrendering her title or anything of the sort, but he knew what she was doing. She was giving him a taste of it, trusting him to go forward, forcing him to make the decisions in an instant. 

They ended up within an apartment, which had been completely ransacked by the Tevinters. Belongings lay shattered or broken, spread across the floor of chambers within. A frightened man admitted to seeing Valendrian with the last group of slaves, but insists on being left alone in case he was next. 

Above the stench of the Alienage filth was the salt of the sea. 

“The Tevinters have been shipping them out,” Alistair muttered angrily. 

The apartments let out into another small courtyard where a drainage ditch ran with mucky water filtered from the other levels of the city. A group of soldiers stood about in the courtyard, and Alistair hesitated a moment upon seeing them, too angry to speak calmly or really think straight.

“What’s this, another shipment already?” their captain asked, stepping forward and running his fingers over the blade of his sword thoughtfully. “Wait, you’re not Tevinter. Who are you supposed to be?” 

“Who are _you_ supposed to be?” Alistair snapped back. And then, for good measure, he stabbed the man through the heart, since they were drawing weapons about them now to defend their path. 

Eideann whirled past him, ducking his shield and taking out the man before him at the knees. A projectile of stone and earth narrowly missed him as Wynne took action too. Zevran’s knives cut the throat of the third, and Alistair battered the forth into the cobblestones before skewering him through the heart too with Duncan’s silverite sword. 

The next warehouse actually was on the docks. The sound of seagulls cut through the thin wood of the corridors, and the waves were slapping against the piers. They stumbled through into a small living area, clearly now in the slaver’s true base, and there found an elven woman who was watching them with cold eyes, a longbow in her hands almost as tall as she, surrounded by more of the soldiers in Tevinter plate.

“What is the meaning of this?” the elf demanded. “We were told that there would be no interference from the authorities!”

“We’re no the authorities,” Eideann said angrily from behind him, and he heard the cold tension in her voice. It was not entirely untrue, as Loghain was the Regent. He was the authorities. That meant the entire thing was operating with his cooperation. Alistair narrowed his eyes, glaring at the Tevinters. 

“Oh?” the elf said flatly. “An errant group of do-gooders? Believe it or not, we’ve been given specialy dispensation to do business here.” She paced across the room, caressing her bow with one hand, fingers running over the wood. “You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very wrong slavery is, but isn’t it funny how quickly the smell of gold overcomes such ideals?” She looked up, and Alistair’s lips twisted into a furious scowl.

“So this is how he’s been paying his mercenary army,” Eideann said quietly behind him. Alistair shook his head.

“I’m Prince Alistair of Ferelden,” he said gruffly. “This _operation_ ,” he spat the word with disgust, “ends _now_. I intend to shut you down.” This was not justice. This was not Ferelden. He might not be a good King, but anything was better than this…selling Ferelden citizens into slavery to fund armies to battle the wrong enemy? Maker’s blood, the very idea made him feel sick to his stomach. 

The elf drew her bow, arrow nocked as she gazed at him.

“And I intend to see you pay for the damage you’ve already done in blood,” she said.

As if that was ever going to be what happened. Alistair moved too quickly, repelling her arrow with his shield, and they fell upon the slavers as one. The woman died on his sword, and the other Tevinters fell one by one to magic and knives and dual Warden blades, until the room was full of corpses and the way was clear.

The halls were narrow, and close quarters fighting made it hard to progress onward as the slavers set upon them in the corridors. Alistair went first, guarding with his shield, because a shield offered the defense that the others did not have. Wynne had some sort of shield she had cast as well in case there were more arrows or even more mages, but even that was a difficult enough task in such cramped quarters. 

But somehow they made it through, and burst into the warehouse docking bay, which backed onto the waterfront through an open door. And it was there they found the man in charge.

It was another mage, clad in the robes of the Tevinter Circle, who considered them with flat eyes and laced his fingers together about his staff. 

“I am Caladrius,” he said simply, looking up at them on the top of the ramp. The rest of the room was full of cages, packed tight with elves, and all of them were watching. The slaver had cast a number of magical traps that could fall at one wrong move. Alistair held up an arm to stop the others, worried they might cause the death of all those elves if they did not move carefully. He wanted to save as many as he could. “You, I assume, must be the Grey Wardens we’ve heard so much about.” Eideann stepped forward to the railing beside Alistair, her eyes dark and stormy.

“Get to the point,” she said fiercely. “What do you want?”

“What I want,” Caladrius said simply, turning his staff in his hands, “is for my business here to be concluded smoothly. If that requires you and I to come to some terms, then so be it.” Eideann’s eyes were cold, and she scanned the elves a moment, then returned Caladrius’s cool gaze.

“What terms did you have in mind?” she asked coldly. Alistair grimaced, flexing his fingers on the handle of his shield and rolling his shoulder anxiously.

“An exchange,” Caladrius called, eyes glinting cruelly. “I hear you’ve been trying to erode Loghain’s support. It must be a difficult task, yes? Like washing away a mountain.” Actually, having been following her around the past few days, Alistair was no longer so certain it _was_ a difficult task. Eideann seemed to be handling it just fine. But the woman leaned forward.

“How could you help, exactly?” she called. 

“Truth be told,” Caladrius mused, crossing his arms about his staff, “there was always a limit to how long we were going to be able to operate here. We’ve paid for many of Loghain’s troops, but once the Landsmeet is done, we become…inconvenient. So here is my offer: one hundred gold sovereigns from you for a letter with the seal of the Teryn of Gwaren implicating him in all of this. Then we leave a few days earier than planned with our profits and remaining slaves, unharmed.” Eideann was quiet for a few minutes. A few minutes too long for comfort.

“I feel dirty,” Alistair said angrily. “We’re not actually considering this, are we?” She glanced to him, eyes dark like the Waking Sea, and pursed her lisp.

“So?” Caladrius called from the docking bay floor. “Do we have a deal? Even you must admit it’s much better to resorting to barbarism, yes?” Eideann gave a cold laugh, presumably at the irony of a slaver speaking out against barbarism, and fixed the man with a look.

“How do I know,” she asked, “this letter of yours is any good?” Alistair bristled, shaking his head.

“Eideann…” he murmured, but she ignored him. He could not let her do it. He could not let her send this man on his way with money and slaves in exchange for this, damn the Landsmeet. 

“It’s legitimate,” Caladrius called, considering Alistair with a wry smile.

“I cannot let you do this,” Alistair said sharply. “You want me to be King, for the Maker’s sake. I can’t sanction selling citizens!” Caladrius smirked.

“Ah, we are in the company of the royal bastard who would be King, as well.”

“Listen to that,” Alistair said coldly. “A slaver calling _me_ a bastard.” He looked to Eideann with a final beseeching look. “I hope you know what you’re doing…” Eideann drew away from him and paced across the walkway atop the ramp, reminding him of a cat stalking her prey. She stopped them, giving the slaver a dazzling smile, and Alistair felt something ease within him.

“No deal,” Eideann said simply. “Time to die, slaver.” She vaulted the railing of the ramp, and Zevran followed suit. Wynne’s magic cut through the air, making things smell acrid and smoky. He could almost taste it on his tongue, and grimaced at it before smiting the slavers down into the flagstones. 

Eideann and Zevran cut through his lackeys, leaving the mage to him, and he gladly took the opportunity for Denerim’s citizens. As the men died and his magic was smothered into nothing under the weight of Alistair’s Templar training, Caladrius dropped to his knees at swordpoint, pleading for his life.

“Enough! Enough! It seems your reputation is an accurate one! I surrender!” he declared.

“Perhaps,” Eideann said, joining Alistair, “you should be left to the mercies of these elves?” The slaver gave a desperate look.

“Wait!” he cried, holding up his hands. “Hear me out.” He gave them a frightened look, stumbling over the words. “Were I to…use the life force of the remaining slaves here, I could…augment your physical health a great deal!” he declared. “Allow me to leave this place alive and I would be more than happy to do this little service for you.” 

“Little service?!” Wynne said, her voice rising an octave in her anger. “He is talking of blood magic! Surely you would not consider such a thing!?” Alistair looked to Eideann, disgusted. 

Maker, don’t say she actually would consider…

Eideann twisted her blades in her hands and beheaded Caladrius before he could say another word.

“No,” she replied, standing over his corpse. “I wouldn’t.” She kicked him over onto his back and pulled forth some documents from within his robes. Alistair, staring, watched her with wary eyes. When she rose, checking the documents, which did indeed bear the Gwaren seal, her eyes flickered to him, and she froze.

“You weren’t really ever considering…I mean…” he trailed off at her dark look.

“What sort of monster do you think I am?” she asked him quietly. “I had to know he had the letters on him before we engaged. It was never the plan to let him or his ilk run free.” She rolled the papers up again, shoving them inside her armor for safekeeping, and then crossed the break the locks from the cages in irritation. 

Of course not. But for a moment, she even had him convinced. 

“You…don’t look like a Tevinter. Not that it means much,” one of the elves said, crossing to join them. He was a frail man, elderly and quiet, and his eyes held a lifetime of sorrow. They reminded Alistair of Duncan a moment, actually, and that made him sad. As Zevran freed the other elves, Eideann turned to them with quiet reservation. “Are you one of them?” the elderly elf asked quietly. “What happens to us now?” 

“You’re free now,” Eideann told him gently. 

“How strange to hear that word in here,” the elderly man said. Alistair reached to rest a hand on his thin, bony shoulder. 

“Are you Valendrian?” he asked. “Shianni was looking for you.”

“Shianni?” Valendrian’s old, wrinkled face burst into smiles. “Did she send you here? Praise the Maker.” He gave a small bow of head, then considered the other elves, gathering about him looking for any kind of guidance he could give. “We will not trespass long on your good graces,” Valendrian said quietly. “Come, everyone, let’s go home.” Alistair watched as they climbed the ramp to return the way they had been led, since that was the path they were familiar with. Eideann was also watching them go, standing next to Alistair, her look somber. When the last of the elves was gone, she continued staring at the door, and did not look to him, but her voice was cool when she spoke.

“Do not presume me heartless and cruel because I have made difficult decisions in the past,” she said simply. “I was under the impression you knew me better than that.”

“I just…sometimes, I wonder,” Alistair admitted. “You are so capable of making the decisions that cost people their lives…”

“That you think I would trade the lives of citizens of Ferelden for a chance to get my hands on some papers to convince people to side against Loghain?” She bowed her head, and when she looked up, her eyes were angry and fierce. “These people have been hurt enough. I am a Teyrna. I am obligated to protect them. Loghain is my enemy, and I will make him pay for what he has done. He might be able to justify selling citizens into slavery after the destruction of an orphanage and the massacre of children to keep his warped sense of order, but I never shall. There is a large difference between Loghain and myself.” Her eyes bore into him, cold and dark. “When I make a decision that costs people their lives, I never make less of that choice. I never make that decision because it is easy. I never choose that option because of what I will gain. There is only one life in all of Ferelden I would gladly take to see this country healed, and that is _mine_. Do not mistake making difficult decisions for throwing lives away in worthless politics.” She turned away, and he watched her a moment, then drew a breath.

The way back to the Alienage was slow and quiet. Eideann’s anger was like a dark cloud across them. Even Zevran was not speaking to him, like he had made the mistake, but then the elf would think that, since he seemed to eat from Eideann’s hand. Angus padded along quietly beside his master, head low. Wynne, grim-faced and somber, simply made her way silently up the steps.

At the Alienage, Shianni was waiting where the other elves were greeting their released family members. It was not all of them. Some they had simply been too late to save. But it was a little healing for a place that had been so badly hurt. And that was a start. 

Shianni crossed to them, a look of such poignant relief on her face that Alistair almost felt something ease within him as well. She smiled, and then gave them a sheepish look.

“I’m sorry if I was rude to you before,” she said quietly, shifting her feet. “Andraste’s ass, you think I’d learn some social graces. Anyway, what I mean by all this thank you.” Eideann nodded, and Alistair smiled slightly.

“It will get better,” he told her quietly. She did not believe him now, but he intended to keep it. If the Landsmeet chose to make him King, the entire Alienage would change. It was disgraceful it had ever been allowed to get into such a state at all.

With the portcullises open, there was also a renewed Chantry presence. Healers had emerged from the Market District across the bridge to insure that the elves who had become sick were being treated properly. Wynne went to meet them and explain what she did know and see if she could help treat the others. Among the Templars, one in particular was lingering around the derelict orphanage. Alistair crossed to him, standing beside him, and the Templar smiled but did not turn to him.

“Ah, I sense another Templar,” the man said quietly, his voice gentle and soft. Alistair blinked, then realized why the man had not turned to look. His eyes were milky and pale, blind, and scars wrinkled the skin of his face. Alistair felt a wash of sadness, then drew a breath.

“I am…Prince Alistair,” he said after a moment. “I was trained in the Denerim Chantry for awhile as a Templar, though.” The man smiled, bowing his head a little out of courtesy.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said kindly. “I am Ser Otto.” 

“Are you not helping the Chantry Sisters?” Alistair asked quietly. Ser Otto put out his hand and Alistair wrapped his own arm about it so he would know where he was. 

“We’d heard rumors that there’s an enclave of maleficarum hidden in the Alienage,” Ser Otto said after thanking him. “I suspect something rather different, myself. I have found no evidence of maleficarum in the Alienage, however there is something else. This place…it’s scarred…like me. When the Uprisings began, the new Arl of Denerim sent in his soldiers. He quelled the riots with…a heavy hand. At the time, troops stormed the Orphanage, which erupted into flames. Some in the Order believe it was the work of elven blood mages trying to protect themselves. I think, however, the fire was an accident. The fear and the danger would be enough to cause a foundling’s magical talents to quickly combust, and would leave a torn Veil that could threaten the rest of the Alienage. It is…that…which I feel now. When I came here, I immediately could feel an air of…hopelessness, despair. But over time, I’ve felt the wrongness runs far deeper than that.” Alistair had never been a fully-fledged Templar. His access to his abilities were limited. Smites were one thing, and the tickle of magic another, but feeling the holes in the Veil were a little more difficult.

Yet even here the place did feel…wrong.

“I see what you mean,” he said after a moment, and the man shifted to touch his hand on his arm.

“I don’t suppose I could impose upon you?” the Templar asked with a slight smile, blind eyes unseeing. “A Templar, a Grey Warden, and a Prince…I imagine you have seen your fair share of combat in your time, and I myself am not much use in that regard any longer.”

“We will gladly help,” Alistair said simply, carefully pulling his arm away. “Let me speak a moment with my companions.” 

As he walked away from the orphanage, the oppressive weight lessened a little, and that made it even worse. Even with the slaver’s stopped, something still dwelled there in the heart of the Alienage, and even if it was not the Blight, many of the elves were indeed getting sick. 

He crossed to the large Vhenedahl, the tree that grew at the center of the Alienage, where Eideann stood exchanging hushed words with Zevran. She handed the papers taken from Caladrius to the ex-Crow, who gave a bow of head and then took off, heading for the gates. Eideann looked to Alistair then, her eyes still a little cool, and he motioned to the orphanage.

“I think there is something in there we will need to see.” 

***

He didn’t trust her.

He had actually believed she was capable of selling the elves to the slaver in exchange for incriminating letters.

He didn’t trust her.

She crossed the Alienage square where Alistair introduced her to Ser Otto. Wynne, helping treat the ill, was staying out in the square with the Chantry clerics, and Zevran was gone with the papers for safe-keeping.

Alistair didn’t trust her.

She sighed, watching as he led Ser Otto through the door into the derelict orphanage. 

A wave of horrid wrongness hit her at the door, so warped and twisted it immediately made her think of the Circle of Magi or the abandoned Dwarven Thaigs. She had never believed in ghosts, but ever since Ostagar a number of things had changed.

She could hear them now, feel them, the screaming of children. And her skin crawled. There was something else too, the electric sensation that rippled over her in creeping waves and made her mind small. She recognized it from the Circle and from Soldier’s Peak. So much death had sundered the Veil.

There was blood everywhere, on the floors, on beds, on toys. The furniture was tipped over or broken or charred. And everywhere she looked there were human remains, blackened by soot and fire, or scattered in pieces like something had ripped them apart. 

“Do you hear me, Ser Willem? Ser Willem?” a voice sang softly through the corridors, some young girl’s voice, too young. “I am falling, Ser Willem, Ser Willem today. I’m a maiden, Ser Willem, Ser Willem. But I’m dying, Ser Willem, Ser Willem, in pain.”

And then the child laughed. Eideann had to stop short, Angus nearly running into her calves. There was nothing comparable to this madness, except perhaps Hespith’s sickening rhume in the depths of Bownammar as she sang about broodmothers and ate the flesh of her kin in the darkness.

There was barking, and she thought of the dogs dead outside. And she had to remind herself that she had already killed the bastard responsible for it. As she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, she caught sight of gnawed bones, and had to look away.

A ghostly apparition floated through the corridors, flickering in and out of sight in the darkness. “I can’t die,” she laughed madly, vanishing and then flickering back again. “I will never die.” And then the little girl’s voice was singing again, laughing about them, everywhere and nowhere at once.

“One, two, Maric’s run through,” she called. “Three, four, the kingdom’s at war. Eight, nine, and now you die…” Eideann glanced to Alistair, who looked as unsettled as she felt. 

And that was when the screaming began. Babies were wailing in the dark corners, children begging for their lives, prayers for an absent Maker in a boy’s young voice. And then they found the bodies rotting in pools of blood.

“This is the center of it,” Ser Otto said, cutting through the horror. 

“Leave, mortal!” something cried, and Ser Otto turned, unseeing, towards the sound. “You do not belong here!” Ser Otto closed his eyes.

“Blessed be the Maker and His prophect Andraste – ”

“Your pathetic Maker is nothing compary to _my_ glory,” the voice rang out, twisted and filled with rage. A demon. What else could it be? Eideann tightened her hands on her swords.

“I command you: show yourself, demon!” Ser Otto cried. “Hide in the shadows no more!” And it rose, red and flaming, a body of fire, and gave a roar of rage. 

“You dare to command me?!” it cried. “Let us see if you precious Maker can protect you now, worm!” 

Eideann dove, shoving Ser Otto out of the way just in time as flames burst over their heads, hot and charging the air with scorching heat that made it hard to breathe for a moment.

“Stay down!” she spat, and rose to stand beside Alistair. 

They moved with the usual coordination, so he did trust her a little, at least enough to have his back. The demon came for them, but what was one demon compared to the destruction of the Deep Roads? What was one demon compared to an entire Circle Tower? The demon fell, and Ser Otto, slowly pushing himself up, waiting a moment, considering the silence, before sighing.

“We won,” he said after an instant, and Alistair helped him to his feet. “At one time, I considered myself quite the warrior, but you accomplished here what I never could.” Eideann glanced to Alistair who said nothing. And then the Templar’s smile faded. “But…something still isn’t right,” he finally said, pondering it. “I feel there is more to this. Nearby. The building next to us?” 

The buildings were a weaving maze of interconnected doors, built and expanded as necessity dictated. So it was not surprising that the next chambers were connected to the orphanage. The echoes of children’s screams just grew worse as they moved further into the neighboring chambers. The blood had made it from pools of floor to splatters across the walls and ceiling, and their boots were thick and sticky with it.

A small boy prayed to Andraste in the next room, quiet and desperate and tearful. Beyond that, a circle of skeletons lay together, boxed in by a barricade of tables that had failed to protect them in life. 

“Leave me alone,” a ghostly child cried, flitting from room to room before them. “Just go! The voices will protect me. They will!” 

There were more demons in his place now, shades with no real form. And then there was an abomination, some mage taken over by a spirit after death. Eideann tried not to think how small a body it seemed to have compared to those she had seen in the Tower. 

“Is it possible for a child just coming into their powers to use blood magic unknowingly?” Alistair asked Ser Otto quietly when all the demons and the abomination were dead. The Templar looked solemn, quiet. 

“If there is enough around,” he finally said. When most children come into their magic, they do not have the control they need to prevent anything from happening. Back there, that was a demon of rage. If blood magic were used to tear the Veil inadvertently…”

Eideann thought of Connor and set her jaw against the dark thoughts that rose unbidden in the wake of the memory. 

In the final room at the end of the corridors, Ser Otto stood defiant.

“You think you are safe?” the demon called, voice a twisting echo. Ser Otto knelt, clasping his hands in prayer.

“Though the Golden City has fallen, I have seen your face and your light. I am your – ” 

“Save your pedantic Chant for your sermons, Templar. You have killed my brood,” the demon interrupted. Ser Otto rose.

“The Maker compels you; show yourself!” the Templar cried. And a soft laugh filled the room. 

“The Maker? There is no Maker!” something said in a voice like silk. “There is no Golden City. But there _are_ demons, yes...” 

“I hear not your blasphemy. By Andraste and all the Divine after Her, I order you to face me!” 

“You delusional fool!” the demon growled, emerging from the floorboards, flame and shadow, though nothing was set alight in its wake. And then it attacked. It too fell to their blades, perhaps too easily, and Eideann stared about warily. 

But Ser Otto was satisfied.

“We have done it again,” he smiled. “The Maker must have guided – ” His voice cut off short, and his eyes grew wide. A pitchfork, left from the riots, had run him through, prongs puncturing his armor. Blood splattered hot across Eideann’s face from his wounds and she turned away, unable to look.

“And now,” the demon said, rising forth again, “you die.” Ser Otto crumpled and Eideann twisted, blades at the ready, feeling sick and angry.

The smite took it down with enough force to shake the timbers of the room. Alistair’s blade cut through it next, and Eideann’s came a breath later. The metal of the blades was hot to touch, almost too hot, but she whirled about and hacked at the creature, unable to stop, unable to get a moment in. Alistair’s blade cut through it as well, hacking and slashing, until finally the demon gave one last roar and disappated into ash and smoke. Eideann glanced to Alistair, who stared a moment at the space where the demon had been, and then he swallowed.

The feeling is gone,” he said quietly, though clearly the Veil still held echoes of damage done there, remained weak. Eideann knelt beside Ser Otto, but there was nothing to be done for him. The pitchfork prongs had pierced his heart. 

“Maker…” she murmured, reaching to close his eyes and then looking to Alistair.

“You’re alright?” he asked her.

“Are you?” she replied. He looked away. 

“No,” he said quietly. “Not really.” They gazed at one another a moment, and then she rose, unable to meet his eyes.

“Alistair, I…can’t stay here. Not a minute longer.” He nodded, then grimaced around the room. 

“This way,” he said, motioning for towards a small corridor that appeared to lead out into the Alienage. They emerged into daylight to find a few of the elves watching, waiting for them, at their head the Hahren Valendrian. Eideann considered them, then turned back to the building, and Alistair sheathed his swords.

“The demons are gone,” he told the elves quietly. “But burn the building down. It isn’t safe to live there anymore, and it will never be clean again.” Valendrian’s eyes were somber as he considered them, and then he took a step forward. 

“You have our thanks, Prince Alistair, Lady Eideann.” Ah, so someone had given them her name as well. “We’ll do as you say. We’ll endure.” He glanced to the Alienage, then back to them. “Thank you again, for all you have done.” Eideann swallowed and gave him a soldier’s bow, as did Alistair. The Prince and the Teyrna bowing to the elven Hahren. 

He just smiled slightly and bowed back.

“Eideann,” Alistair called softly, and she looked over to him with tired eyes. “Let’s…let’s go home.” She nodded and turned away from the elves, heart aching and jaw set. 

Their work was almost done.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann's companions discuss the Landsmeet; Riordan tells Eideann of his plans to head south; Shayle admits her admiration; Eideann puts in place her back-up plan and makes some final preparations; the Landsmeet begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

“Do you think they’re actually going to pull this off tomorrow?” Oghren grumbled, wiping his beard with the back of his hand and lowering the bottle of blisteringly strong ale. Leliana grimaced.

“We can only hope,” she replied simply.

“’Tis not a question,” Morrigan said from where she stood by the fireplace. “’Tis a simple fact. Should the diplomatic route fail, our Teyrna Cousland will go to war. You need not worry.” She looked back and blinked at Leliana and Oghren staring at her. “What?” 

“You think she’ll…what? Kill the Landsmeet?” 

“Hardly,” Morrigan scoffed. “She’ll simply despose of this Loghain and his daughter and be done with it.” 

There was an awkward silence, and then Leliana shook her head.

“You don’t really think Eideann would just…do that after all this work, do you?” she said skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Zevran said quietly from the doorway. “After what we have just seen…” They all looked to him. “Loghain has been permitting a slaving operation in the Alienage.” His eyes were cold. Oghren grimaced, then set down the bottle.

“So, she’s mad then?” he asked. “Bout sodding time.” 

“No, my friend,” Zevran said, shaking his head with a wan smile. “When Eideann Cousland is angry, I believe we shall know without a doubt.” 

“Yes, you will,” Eideann muttered, sweeping into the room. “Zevran, the letters.” He dug them from his armor and handed them over. Oghren narrowed his eyes.

“You look like shit, Warden,” he said and she gave him a flat look.

“Why, thank you, dwarf,” she muttered. Alistair came into view, leaning in the doorframe. 

“Where have you been?” Leliana insisted, like she were a mother hen, clucking over absent chicks. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Eideann said as Alistair answered, “The abandoned orphanage.” There was an awkward silence between them and Eideann turned away.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, and left them to it. Alistair, moving slightly out of her way, settled back in the doorway after she had left, shaking his head. 

“It…it was not a pretty sight, but we got what we came for. And…Eideann is right. You will definitely know when she gets angry. You didn’t see her at the Denerim estate.” He bit his lip.

“Has she told you yet, who she plans to put on the throne?” Leliana asked. He shook his head.

“She’ll keep it to herself until the last moment, I expect,” he sighed. “She makes us all play the part. Speaking of which, she has a few requests about who is going to go tomorrow.”

“All of us,” Zevran said simply. “We will not take no for an answer.”

“If things go badly…” Leliana agreed. Morrigan crossed her arms, sniffing the thought away.

“She has a plan, and we will abide by it for now.” Alistair gave her an odd look, like she had grown a few extra heads or something similar, and then shook his own head to clear his thoughts.

“She told me this much so I could let all of you know while she deals with Arl Eamon,” he explained. “Leliana, she’s asked to see you personally with a special task, whatever that is. She wouldn’t tell me. As for everyone else, Zevran you’ll be entering with us. Your job is to keep a watch out for assassins. Wynne will be going as a representative of the Circle of Magi, full Senior Enchanter robes and all. Sten and Oghren, you’ll be wingmen. The most danger is going to involve actually getting to the Landsmeet, and your job will be to kill anyone who tries to stop us. It will be Loghain’s last chance to prevent anything, so he will most likely try.” He looked to Morrigan. “You’ll be coming with us personally, since Eideann seems to be under the impression you are trustworthy, and if something goes wrong you are to go immediately for Loghain, or so she said.” He made a distasteful look, then crossed his arms. “Shayle will be manning the door. Once we’re in session, no one can interrupt us.” 

“And you…what? Try and sit in the big chair?” Oghren said flatly. 

“I honestly don’t know. But I have to go in with her, whatever the case may be, even if she throws her support behind Anora. And I have to hope it doesn’t cost me my head.” Morrigan gave a sneer.

“I doubt you would miss it, anyway. You hardly seem to use it.” He gave her a dark glare and she raised the challenge, but he did not take it.

“So, pike-twirler,” Oghren said after a moment of drinking, “do _you_ think she can pull this off?” Alistair pushed away from the door, running a hand into his hair.

“Yes. And that is frightening.” He looked away. “Anyway, that’s the plan for tomorrow. Be ready to go in the morning. And Oghren…have a wash. Or something.” He turned away then, without another word, and Oghren grimaced.

“What? Do nobles not like the smell of a man?”

“I am sure they do,” Zevran said with all his usual charm. “But you, my stocky friend, smell like a slime-filled pool of swamp water.” Oghren just grinned.

“Thanks, elf,” he said, and then took another swig of his ale.

***

“Lady Cousland.” Eideann paused, papers in her fist, to see Riordan, clad in borrowed scale-mail, crossing the hall to her. She smiled slightly and turned to him, delaying her news for a moment in favor of greeting him. After all, there was nothing political about him, and the soft lilt of Highever made her think of home. 

“Riordan, you look like you’re feeling better.” He smiled, and thanked her, then sighed.

“When I am well enough, I will travel south towards Ostagar and the center of this Blight,” he told her. “If we want to defeat this Archdemon, we need to know where it is and how soon it might strike.” Eideann’s smile slipped and she gave him a worried look.

“You’re going alone?” she asked. He gave her small chuckle.

“As it is, I don’t think we can deprive all the armies you’ve gathered of a Commander,” he told her with a tone of genuine respect. She realized while he was down tracing the source of the Blight and working out where Urthemiel might emergy, she would need to summon those armies she had gathered, beginning right there in Denerim. “I see you are busy,” he said, glancing to the papers in her hand. “We will talk again when the Landsmeet is more settled.” Eideann thanked him, and he bowed away before crossing the hall, leaving her standing a moment on the steps. 

There was a rumbling of stone on flagstones and Eideann looked over her shoulder to see Shayle rocking a little back and forth.

“Interesting squishy little man, that one,” the golem finally said, but not with any insult. Then the glowing white eyes settled on her. “The plan for tomorrow…is it certain it does not wish simply to bash them all to paste?” Eideann gave a mirthless smile and shook her head, turning to the golem with a sigh.

“No. We must do this properly or not at all,” she said. Shayle made a musing noise, then settled flat. 

“I’ve watched a lot of humans in my time,” the golem finally said. “It should be aware that I have decided that it is…not much like any of them.” Eideann did laugh then, shaking her head.

“That could be good or bad,” she replied.

“Good of course!” Shayle insisted. “It doesn’t _want_ to have anything in common with those other substandard creatures, does it?” The golem sniffed. “Surely it must come from some superior lineage, yes? Some breed of flesh creature that has decided to elevate its genetic stock above its natural shortcomings?”

“There’s a backhanded complement in there somewhere,” Eideann grinned. The golem’s crystals flared a little. 

“Nonsense. It can imagine my surprise discovering such a thing was possible from a creature so…soft…but there it is.” She hesitated. “I would appreciate it if it didn’t spread around that I said anything. Humans might start to get the wrong idea. They might start thinking their race is not completely hopeless.”

“And we wouldn’t want _that_ ,” Eideann said conspiratorially.

“Indeed,” Shayle agreed. “Can it imagine the horror?” Eideann laughed. She could not help it. And if rocks could smile, she was certain that Shayle would have been. The golem sobered a little then, crystals dimming a little. “It occurs to me that I have been…” A big sigh filled the silence, and Eideann blinked. “Excuse me, this is _not_ easy.” Eideann’s smile slipped and she considered the stone woman with cautious eyes as she tried again. “It occurs to me that I have been less than _charitable_ with it since it reanimated me.” Eideann shook her head.

“You had good reasons, I think,” she said quietly. Shayle rocked slightly.

“I have come to realize that it has been good to me… _you_ have been good to me…even though you had no control rod to enforce obedience.” Eideann’s breath caught a little. “I have…never had one before, so I don’t know how to…thank you. For being…you know…”

“A friend?” Eideann asked, her voice barely above a murmur. Shayle let out a great sigh of relief and nodded. 

“Exactly so.” The golem’s eyes narrowed a little, rock shifting in a carved face. “I followed you expecting to find answers to my questions, but I think I have found something better.” Eideann smiled, and for a moment could not find the words, and then looked away, a little embarrassed, before smiling back at the golem.

“Does this mean I get to be called ‘you’ now?” she teased softly. The golem gave a snort of laughter, a strange noise coming from a tower of stone. 

“No. It’s a one-time thing. I don’t want to raise its expectations to unrealistic levels, after all.” The golem shook her head and then sniffed. “Let us not speak of this awkward bonding moment ever again,” she declared archly, and Eideann smiled, then gave a slight nod. And then she left the golem to her further musings and climbed the steps to Arl Eamon’s study. He was seated at the desk, going through a number of papers which she recognized were for the Landsmeet by the seals stamped on them in various colors of wax. It made her think of Fergus a moment, as he had been the one carrying the signet ring of Highever, and she hoped her signature would be enough. 

Eamon looked up at her and then slowly pushed himself from his chair.

“Ah, there you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve been hearing of a great commotion in the Alienage. What exactly happened there?” Eideann held forth the letter, rolled in her hand, sealed with the sigil of the Mac Tirs of Gwaren. 

“Proof,” she said, her voice cold, “Loghain was involved in slave trading.” Eamon stared at her, then took the paper, brow arched.

“Maker forgive me, I should be appalled such a thing could exist in the city, but I am overjoyed you can implicate Loghain.” Eideann’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she thought a little less of him in that moment. But then he sighed. “The last of our allies has arrived in the city. The Landsmeet has been set for the morrow. You will be the one to escort Alistair to the palace in the morning.” She nodded, feeling a little nervous, and Eamon considered her. “If there is nothing else – ”

“There is, actually.” Eideann turned and carefully closed the door. At this, Eamon gave her a concerned look, and she raised her chin, crossing her arms. “There is one more thing I need to do. And I need your help.” He slowly sank into a seat and she considered him. “It should go without saying that as the last Cousland, I have no heir should something happen during this battle. It should also go without saying that if it comes to a fight, I am the only one in that chamber with the right to challenge the Teyrn of Gwaren.” Eamon gave a solemn nod, lacing his fingers together.

“You do not think you can win,” he said after a moment. She shook her head.

“Actually, I believe I do, but it is always best to have a plan in place, should there be a problem. And this is a safeguard in another way.” 

“What other way?” Eamon asked suspiciously. 

“If Anora takes the throne, wins the Landsmeet, someone’s head will roll. It will probably be Alistair’s, since as a Teyrna, they cannot touch me. Even the monarch of Ferelden has not got the authority to command the Teyrnirs. We bend the knee by choice, in accordance with the Alamarri Accords, and that can be revoked.” Eamon’s eyes were sharp, considering her.

“So you are suggesting what?” he asked quietly.

“A document, signed by the Arls of Redcliffe and South Reach, and the Banns of Waking Sea, the Storm Coast, Dragonspeak, and Rainesfere – a collective that stretches across the major borders of all corners of Ferelden – recognizing Alistair as the heir to Highever should we lose control of the situation.” She grimaced.

“Unorthodox,” Eamon said after a moment. There are many who may not accept it. But…it will give him the protection of Highever that he would otherwise not have. The protection of a title is always more than no protection at all.” 

“The Chantry will also protect him,” she said quietly. “And anyone loyal to the Theirins.” 

“Why,” Eamon asked her after a moment. She dropped her gaze, seeking the words, and when she looked at him her eyes burned with that ferocity she was known for. 

“Because I do not trust Anora to rule alone, and if she wins the Landsmeet, she is required under Ferelden law to accept the advisors from top-ranking nobility, which will always include the Teyrnir of Highever.” Her voice was quiet but strong. “If Anora wins the Landsmeet, she will try to have Alistair silenced, and I cannot let that happen. I swore to Cailin at Ostagar I would defend the Theirin line with my life, and I mean to. If it comes to that, I will die instead, and he can lead the armies of the Blight. It is all my mess to deal with anyway. And if my death could save his life, and put him in a position to affect the political aftermath, then I must do it, Eamon. I have to think of a Ferelden beyond the Blight. And a Ferelden ruled by Anora alone…”

“And if Alistair wins?” Eamon said softly. “You have worked hard in his name, after all. I believe you have a very good chance of deciding this decisively in his favor.” 

“If he wins, then the surety is set for when we battle the Archdemon, and should I die before I have my own heirs by blood, the Teyrnir will pass safely to the throne, in accordance with the agreements laid down in the Alamarri Accords.” Eamon’s gaze took her in, all of her then, and he finally nodded.

“Very well. Have you told Alistair?” 

“No. And he cannot know. Could you imagine how he’d panic if he knew I planned to offer myself if we lose? Maker’s blood, I can’t tell him all this. He will have the documentation, and it will be signed by the nobility of Ferelden.” She shifted slightly. “I had hoped you would help me word it, and then I could collect the signatures this evening. I have much to take care of, and until I have done this, the rest is on hold.” He nodded, opening his desk drawer and pulling forth parchment, a quill, and ink. And then he began to write the writ for her, his looping hand official and strong. When it was done, he signed it, letting the ink dry, and then turned it to her.

“Your signature, and then you may take it.” 

“Thank you,” she said, and he just held out the quill for her to sign at the bottom. It was strange to write it, stranger than saying it aloud, but her hand sketched out the name _Teyrna Eideann Cousland of Highever_ and then she set down the quill with a deliberate motion and blew on the ink gently. 

“There,” she said quietly.

“You care for him very much,” Eamon said after a moment of silence, watching her. She looked to him, but did not say anything, and finally she rolled up the parchment and tied it shut with a ribbon from the Arl’s desk.

“I will return shortly,” she said quietly, and he nodded. “Do not tell him where I have gone.”

“Be careful, your Ladyship,” he said quietly, and she nodded. 

“I won’t go alone.” 

She took Sten, who followed without a single word, and Morrigan, who kept her secrets well. It took them three hours and quite a lot of convincing to gather the signatures to make it official. Some, like Leonas Bryland, just smiled and signed his name without needing to hear a word. Others, like Bann Sighard, needed convincing. But in the end it was her Teyrnir, and she could name whatever heir she liked.

When she returned to the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate, it was dark, and candlelight flickered in the windows. She sought out Leliana first, pulling the Bard into an empty chamber and handing her the paper.

“Keep this safe. Guard it with your life,” she said quietly, and Leliana accepted it with solemnity. “The other thing I need you to do is take my armor to the Landsmeet tomorrow morning, early, before anyone else arrives. The Grey Warden armor. I shall pack it up this evening before bed, along with weapons.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Leliana asked her cautiously, and Eideann nodded, look firm.

“If it comes to a fight, and I believe it will, I will need to be able to do it myself. Come by my chambers after the ten’o’clock bell and I shall be ready.” 

“Be careful,” Leliana told her quietly.

Dinner was a somber affair, mostly silent, everyone on edge, including Anora and her handmaiden who avoided looking at anyone. As they finished, Anora did catch Eideann by the arm and fix her with a look.

“Remember our arrangement,” she said in a simple voice, and Eideann nodded. Alistair, watching in the doorway, did not ask, and she was grateful for it. 

She climbed the steps to her chambers where her trunk lay locked, and opened it with the key she carried. And then she dug out everything she needed, the final things she had to take care of. She spread her gown out across the bed to air, admiring again the delicate stitching of the emblems of Highever in the red thick weave. And then she drew forth her armor for Leliana. 

And finally she gathered the rest of the equipment, and drew a breath to calm her nerves, bundling it all together in a sack and carrying it carefully across the hall. 

Alistair looked up as she entered, seeming more on edge than ever before. He was examining his Warden armor, all the chips and scratches. She stepped into his chambers, closing the door with her hip, and paused a moment to consider him. He eyed the bundle up in her arms, and so she crossed to the bed to set it down gently. 

“What is this?” he asked suspiciously. She clasped her hands before her.

“Tomorrow, we’re going before every noble house in the country to bring down Loghain,” she told him quietly. “I’ve done all I can to garner their support, but this is something that you must do yourself.” She met his amber eyes, molten gold that made her heart ache. “I will be in that room as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, since we must focus on your role as Prince in these proceedings. But I will also be there as the Teyrna of Highever, and you’ve seen already how much weight that lends to the cause of fighting the Blight. I shall have to dress the part. And if this is to work, you shall need to as well.” He stared at her, nervous, and so she pressed on.

“You are Maric’s son,” she explained. “We have to make sure they see it, that they don’t any of them forget. Whatever the end result, your voice is heard only for that fact. So Maric’s son you must be.” She slipped Maric’s Sword from the bundle on the bed and held it in her left hand by the scabbard, holding it up for him. “You must take this sword intot hat chamber, not I. This is _his_ sword, the Theirin’s birthright. It is _your_ birthright.” He held up his hands, shaking his head.

“But Duncan’s – ” Eideann reached for Duncan’s blade where it lay on the bed beside his armor and held it to her chest. She recalled reclaiming it long ago at Ostagar. It’s sister, Duncan’s dagger, never left her side. It was tucked at the small of her back even then.

“It will be there too,” she said quietly. “We are still Wardens. It shall go with me. I have a feeling this may come down to blood with Loghain, and Duncan’s memory belongs there for all the Wardens.” He hesitated.

“If it does – ” he began, but she shook her head.

“If it does, _I_ must be the one to face him. You cannot. Your title is not secure, but _mine_ is, and so I alone have the authority to duel a Teyrn for now. But I promise, if it comes to that, _you_ will have the killing blow, love.” Her eyes were fiery in the dim light. He finally closed his hand about Maric’s sword and the weight left her hands. “It is only fitting,” she said quietly, eyeing up the dragonbone as he slid it from its scabbard halfway to consider it, “that Maric’s Sword takes the head of a traitor, after all.”

“What’s all that then?” Alistair asked, glancing to the rest of the bundle.

“Take a look.” She stepped back, and he reached to peel back the cloth holding everything together. And then he immediately backed away as if burned.

“No.” He looked at her. “Eideann, no. I can’t wear that.” 

“You must.” Cailin’s armor had been repaired in Redcliffe, the task she had asked Zevran to oversee. It was polished and shining, cleaned and mended, sitting glinting gold on the bedding. “A blade isn’t enough. This…this is the vision they know…For the Landsmeet, _this_ is who you must be.” She sat down on the bed carefully. “If they are to support you, they have to see a King, not a nervous man in Grey Warden armor. They must see the son of King Maric, brother of Cailin, scion of the House of Theirin, wielding the King’s sword and dressed to lead them into battle against the Blight.” Her Cousland blues fixed on him. “And if they will not support you, then they must fear you and respect your voice, so that when you call for Loghain’s head, they still _hear_ your voice. We must make this a battle between a King and a Queen, a Teyrn and a Teyrna, or else we will lose everything, Alistair.” She looked away, hesitating over the words a moment, and then nodded to herself. “I will be honest here. If it seems we may lose, I have made preparations for you to continue to lead the armies against the Blight. If we lose, you must counter Anora with your kindness. Those words Eamon spoke yesterday about all the good qualities you have…we need those.”

“What preparations?” he asked specifically. “Eideann, what have you done?” She looked up at him.

“I’ve made you heir to Highever,” she finally said. “I’ve extended you the protections afforded by the Teyrnir. If I lose against Loghain, or if the Landsmeet chooses Anora, they cannot touch you.”

“And you?” he said, wary. She just smiled.

“I have taken care of it all,” she assured him, refusing to tell him what exactly that meant. He took that to mean something had been done to see they both lived, and settled back a little, considering Cailin’s plate on his bed. Then he grimaced.

“You really are going through with this, aren’t you?” he asked quietly. “You told me you would tell me first before anyone else if you were going to make me King. Are you?” She met his eyes, and then she opted for the truth.

“It is the general plan,” she finally admitted. “I know it isn’t what you wanted, but you’ve seen the damage done with Anora as Queen.” 

“I won’t be any better, Eideann,” he insisted. “I don’t know the first thing about – ” She rose, silencing him with a gentle finger on his lips.

“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve to win the Landsmeet. And I will do what is best for Ferelden. Everything will be alright,” she told him quietly, and he was silent then, watching her with helpless eyes. 

“Don’t do something we will regret,” he told her after a moment, and she smiled slightly.

“I will try not to,” she told him. “I…I think it’s best if I go now.” He glanced to the bed, then to her, before tossing Maric’s sword aside and sweeping her into his arms, kissing her firmly and sinking his fingers into her hair. When he finally pulled back, he was panting softly at the effort, and she swallowed.

“Goodnight, love,” he said quietly, and she nodded, bowing her head and then turning away. 

Leliana was waiting in her chambers when she returned, leaning against the bedposts and gazing at the armor laid out. Eideann thanked her again, and then handed her Duncan’s sword. She kept the dagger in her boots, determined to at least be slightly armed. Leliana gathered it all into a bundle of her own, wrapping it carefully in oil-cloth, and then she gave Eideann a solemn nod and disappeared down the corridor.

Eideann motioned to Angus, who joined her on the bed and curled against her feet. But she did not sleep immediately. She lay, for a long time, gazing at the ceiling. 

When she finally did drift off to sleep, she had no idea the time. But she did know she dreamed, and in those dreams she was chasing her father down into a long, dark tunnel until she was lost, falling, and there at the end the Archdemon was waiting, eyes glowing purple in the darkness.

***

Eideann woke that morning feeling sick to her stomach. She hauled herself from bed and sent for Nigella, the elven servant who had walked in on her and Alistair a few days earlier. The elf had quick fingers, and helped her into the gray silk and red Highever weave gown Leliana had so painstakingly sewn. At her neck hung the Warden pendant, a reminder of all those who did not make it that far, and for her that was now a sizeable list. Sje ran a comb through her blonde hair until it shined, and then paused to consider herself in the mirror atop the dressing table near the corner of her chambers. And for a moment she could only look. Her father’s eyes stared back at her, sharp and subtle and fierce Cousland blue. But it was her mother’s posture that ran through the lines of her figure. The gown, a marvel of flame red and Warden grey was made for that moment, that day. 

She slipped into her boots and tucked Duncan’s dagger into the cuff at her calf, then swept her skirts to a semblance of order, and drew a deep breath.

Alistair was waiting for her just outside her room, and she heard his breath catch as he caught sight of her. He was wearing the golden armor, refitted to work for him, and Maric’s Sword was at his back beneath the Theirin Shield. If all went well, he would need his own armor made, but for the moment the figure he cut was impressive. Calenhad may have been the silver knight, but Alistair was certainly the golden one. There was not a single Bann or Arl in the Landsmeet who could see him and not see Maric or Cailin and the Theirin blood. She swept a curtsy for him, bowing her head, and he cleared his throat nervously before setting off down the steps. 

The others were waiting at the entrance hall, armed to the teeth and bristling, and odd contingent of the alliance they brought to bear against Loghain. Circle Mages, apostates, Qunari, Dwarves, Elves…all represented in their entourage. 

They left in the early hours before the city could grow too busy, mounted atop their warhorses that pranced and danced in the streets with the anxiety they were feeling from the gathering crowds. 

The people came to see them ride out, those that were up and awake, and watched, a little awed, at the sight of a Prince and a Teyrna and their eclectic crew off to win a crown.

The spectacle only grew the closer they drew to the Palace District, where now it was the families of those summoned to the Landsmeet who had turned out to see the Lords and Ladies of Ferelden assemble. Most of the nobility had already gathered within the Landsmeet Chamber, the Great Hall that sat at the mouth of the Palace itself. They were the last there, and that was the way she had planned it. They could hardly start without them, after all.

They climbed the steps of the Royal Palace and Alistair gave her a hesitant look as they neared the doors. Zevran held them open, allowing them passage, and as she entered she caught him say, “ _Bella_ , you are magnificent.” And then the din of the gathered crowds was quelled by the stone walls, and they were alone, their small party, in the entrance hall of the palace. 

And aligned against them were Loghain’s men, clad in the armor of the royal guard, at their head Ser Cauthrien.

“Lady Eideann,” she said in quiet tones. “I am not surprised it has come to this.” Eideann just stared her down until she looked away, glancing to Alistair who, to his credit, did not stiffen. “And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric’s son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet, now wouldn’t you?” Eideann let out a soft sigh. A final attack by Loghain. They had seen it coming, of course, and yet…here it was, as sharp as ever, and all of it pointless in the end. “You have torn Ferelden apart to oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom,” Ser Cauthrien said angrily. “But do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as regent, and we can finally put this to rest. Once you are gone.” Eideann shook her head, eyes sharp and sad.

Her words at the Arl of Denerim’s estate, which had given Cauthrien pause before, were just as powerful now, if not more so. She held out a hand to stop Sten and Oghren, who had reached threateningly for weapons, and instead took a step forward, facing the line of armored and armed soldiers, and Ser Cauthrien, with confidence. 

“Do you really not see what Loghain has become?” she asked quietly, considering them all, then allowing her gaze to fall on Ser Cauthrien. And she held that gaze, steady, unwavering, until something in Cauthrien that had bent when they surrendered to the rule of law finally broke.

“I have had…so many doubts of late,” she said quietly, her voice haunted. “Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness.” The inner turmoil within her showed on her face as she fought the battle of wills with herself. “He has done…terrible things, but I owe him everything.” She met Eideann’s eyes. “I cannot betray him. Do not ask me to.” Eideann slowly stepped down onto the royal blue carpets until she was even with Cauthrien, could have been slain by a single swipe of her sword.

“Then let _me_ stop him,” she said softly. “Let me save the land he helped Maric build.” A flash of pain crossed over Ser Cauthrien’s face, and her mouth twisted, eyes narrowing in despair. And then, slowly, she stepped aside, head bowed.

“I never thought,” she said quietly, “that duty would taste so bitter.” Eideann touched her arm softly, knowing full well the costs of duty. Ser Cauthrien met her eyes beseechingly. “Stop him from betraying everything he once loved,” she said softly, “but please, show mercy. Without Loghain, there would _be_ no Ferelden to defend.” Eideann nodded, because she knew that as well, and then turned away. The guardsmen parted before her as she swept across the carpets and up the final steps, and then she pushed open the great doors and made her way through the collected Banns that gathered on the Landsmeet floor.

Arl Eamon was addressing the Landsmeet already, voice strong and loud. Alistair, at her side, was watching him, jaw set and eyes fierce.

“My Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear!” Eamon cried, voice echoing through the rafters. Above them, banners with the red mabari of Ferelden swayed softly in the breeze, and the morning light streamed down into the chamber from high windows. At the far end, the throne sat amidst a drapery of cloth-of-gold atop a raised dais. “He placed us on this path, yet we should place our destiny in his hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?” 

There was some applause then, some roars of approval from those on the floor, and Eideann allowed herself a small smile for that at least.

“A fine performance, Eamon, but no one here is taken in by it,” came the drawl she was waiting for, behind her, emerging from one of the doors leading to the Palace proper. Eideann glanced back over her shoulder, watching him with what she imagined was a fair imitation of her mother’s best disdain, as he approached, flanked by Mac Tir guards, clad in full armor like always. He may be a General, and a one-time hero, but the Landsmeet had never managed to make him appear one of the nobility. Eideann, in sweeping embroidered red, and Alistair in golden plate, at least appeared the part.“You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it,” he called to the chamber. “The better quest is who will pull the strings?” 

He came down the steps, his sharp gaze shifting to her, eyes cold. He, at least, recognized who his real enemy was. He had seen it in her eyes when he had stood with Arl Howe and Ser Cauthrien to face them in the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate, after all. 

“And here we have the puppeteer,” he declared, facing Eideann head on now. “Tell us, Warden: how _will_ the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?” His voice was rising to a shout now. “What did they offer you? How much is the price of Ferelden honor now?” Eideann held a hand out for her party to stand where they were, including Alistair, and took a step forward across the carpets. The Landsmeet Banns quickly got out of her way, watching. Eideann circled a little about Loghain, gown trailing behind her on the carpets, and then shook her head.

“You may call me Teyrna Eideann Cousland,” she said softly, because he may need to yell, but her father had never needed to, and she needed those skills learned from a true Teyrn to defeat this imposter playing at service. “And as for the price of honor, you yourself should be far better able to answer that. I am the Teyrna you had Arl Howe attempt to kill, the Teyrna you locked away in Fort Drakon to see if she would break.” She fixed him with a simple look. “I will not break.” She looked to the Landsmeet then, scanning the faces, and settling on the bearded countenance of Arl Wulff. “The Blight is the threat here,” she called to them, “ _not_ Orlais.” Her eyes caught Leliana’s gaze through the crowd, off near the opposite doors where Arl Eamon’s retinue waited. 

“There are enough refugees in my Bannorn now to make that abundantly clear!” she heard Alfstanna call from her place on one of the balconies. 

“The south has fallen, Loghain. Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?!” Arl Wulff said quietly, watching her. 

Eideann turned back to Loghain, fixing him with a look like fire. 

“The Blight is indeed real, Wulff,” Loghain said angrily, still shouting, “but do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?! The claim they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly agains thte darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers! And once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?!” Eideann shook her head with a small smile, pulling the next arrow from her quiver to aim at his heart. If he wanted to fret about one of Ferelden’s borders, she would show them Tevinter, the dark nation without borders.

“You,” she said calmly, “sold Fereldan citizens into slavery to fund your war.” He stared at her then, and there was a gasp from the Landsmeet at her back. She took a step forward across the carpet, like she were backing him into a corner as well.

“What’s this?! There is no slavery in Ferelden!” Bann Sighard demanded. “Explain yourself!”

“There is no saving the Alienage,” Loghain said sharply. “Damage from the riots has yet to be repaired. There are bodies still rotting in their homes. It is not a place I would send my worst enemy.” 

“And yet here I stand, apparently your worst enemy, and I have walked those streets and helped those people where you would not!” Eideann shot back. 

“There is no chance of holding it if the Blight comes here!” Loghain wheeled on Eideann then, armor glinting. “Despite what you may think, Warden, I have done my duty. Whatever my regrets may be for the elves, I have done what was needed for the good of Ferelden!” Eideann gave a sharp clear laugh that echoed through the chamber.

“By assuming the entire Bannorn would be swallowed by the Blight so you could meet it here in Denerim and fight a battle in the very streets?” she said, and sounding like that it did appear preposterous. “This is the man who wants to save Ferelden?” Her eyes went cold. “And never presume, your Lordship, to tell a Cousland about duty, or have you forgotten the words we live by.” She looked to the Landsmeet. “This man has worked against the good of Ferelden for months. He pulled your troops northward to fight his silly civil war while your lands fell to the Blight! I have walked those lands, battled those darkspawn, and I have never run!” She glared at him. “Worse still, he allowed Arl Rendon Howe to imprison and torture innocents! And he sent an apostate blood mage to poison Arl Eamon which nearly led to the decimation of an entire Arling!” 

“The Warden speaks truly!” Bann Sighard cried, pain lacing his voice. “My son was taken under cover of night! The things done to him…some of them are beyond any healer’s skill.” 

“Howe was responsible for himself,” Loghain rebuffed. “He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life, as must we all. But you know that. You were the one who murdered him! Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the Seneschal! There is no justice in butchering a man in his own home!”

“Something Howe knew well, as it was a favorite pastime of his, and yours as well. A regent does not get to claim such innocence when his right hand is responsible for such depravity,” Eideann said back quietly, dangerously. “And the apostate got his orders to poison Arl Eamon from you yourself.”

“I assure you, Warden,” he spat, ignoring her title. “If I were going to send someone, it would be my own soldiers! I would not trust to the discretion of an apostate!” Eideann smiled, shaking her head.

“Indeed!” Alfstanna called angrily. “My brother tells a very different tale. He says you snatched a blood mage from the Chantry’s justice!” Her eyes were cold, furious, and for a moment she looked like Eleanor in her rage. “Coincidence?”

“Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain!” came the sharp and angry tones of the Grand Cleric of Denerim, standing atop the balcony at the far end of the hall, there as witness to the proceedings, but suddenly very much involved. “Interference in a Templar’s sacred duties is an offense against the Maker!” Loghain looked up at her, eyes weary.

“Whatever I have done,” he said coolly, “I will answer for later.”

“No one is above the law,” Eideann told him as he turned his cold eyes back on her.

“Even you,” he replied. “At the moment, however, I wish to know what this Warden has done with my daughter!” Eideann smiled, her skirts twisting about her across the flagstones and carpets, as she raised her chin.

“What are you talking about?” she asked him flatly. 

_Let us hear your story for this. Let us see what lies you tell them now._

“You took my daughter, _our Queen_ by force!” he shot back.

“Did I?” Eideann replied curtly.

“Does she even still live?!” he cried, shouting again, as if shouting was winning him anything at all. Eideann smiled slightly, clasping her hands before her calmly.

“I believe I can speak for myself!” came the honey-sweet, steel-laced tones of Anora Mac Tir. She swept into the room in cloth-of-gold, trimmed with silver and green embroidery, coronet woven into her hair. She crossed the hall, eyes cold, and swept past them to the dais, which she climbed a few steps before turning back. Her skirts fell down the last few steps behind her. Between Eideann and Anora, the Landsmeet was the height of fashion it appeared. Anora’s eyes scanned the Landsmeet, grim and cold.

“This man,” she declared, pointing at her father, “is _not_ your Hero of Ferelden. He abandoned your king when he fought the darkspawn. He swept into Denerim and locked me away. I would have already been killed, if not for this Grey Warden, Teyrna Eideann Cousland.” Loghain froze a moment, and then slowly, solemnly, he turned to face his daughter, fury and betrayal on his face. She stared back, gaze cold, and only a slight twitch of the corner of her mouth in disapproval showed her conflict. 

And then she turned those Mac Tir eyes on Eideann, who met them and called out loudly, clearly.

“Anora speaks the truth.”

“So,” Loghain spat. “The Warden’s influence has poisoned even _your_ mind, Anora.” He sighed, hanging his head a moment, then stared up about the Landsmeet chamber, mouth twisted into an angry sneer. “My Lords and Ladies, our land has been threatened before. It’s been invaded, and lost, and won times beyond counting! We Fereldans have proven that we will never truly be conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me and we shall defeat even the Blight itself!” Eideann turned her back to him, dangerous as it was with him so armed and his guards before him, and looked upon the Landsmeet, the Lords and Ladies of the Bannorn, and shook her head.

“Or stand with me, and reason, because this man can never unite a land he has worked so hard to destroy,” she said quietly, and there was some shifting, and finally someone gave a soft laugh.

“South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens,” Arl Bryland said first, and his Bannorn quickly fell in line, voting one by one against Loghain.

“The Warden helped me personally,” another noble said calmly, “in a…family matter. I too stand with the Grey Wardens.”

“Waking Sea,” Alfstanna said, smiling softly at Eideann, “stands with Highever, as it always has, and the Grey Wardens.”

“Dragonspeak supports the Warden,” Bann Sighard called from beside her.

“Redcliffe stands with the Warden,” Arl Eamon called.

“Rainesfere stands with the Warden.” She looked up to Arl Eamon’s balcony to see Bann Teagan watching her with eyes that shone like the sun, and for a moment she almost imagined Fergus there. 

“The Western Hills throw their lot in with the Wardens,” Arl Wulff said after a moment. “Maker help us.” 

“The Blight is coming!” someone shouted on the floor. “We _need_ the Wardens!” 

In the end, only one man voted for Loghain, and that was Bann Ceorlic, whose lands bordered Gwaren and whose family had always been turncoats when possible.

A peace settled over Eideann then, and she closed her eyes a moment, offering up a prayer to the Maker to deliver her thanks to her mother and father for all their teachings and strength. And then she slowly turned back, Cousland blues settling on Loghain.

“The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain,” she said quietly. “Step down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Hopeless. I apparently lied and didn't finish it this chapter. Eideann's final decision will be next chapter, though, I promise!
> 
> <3


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann challenges Loghain to a duel for Ferelden; Eideann becomes the Arbiter of the Landsmeet; the armies of Ferelden prepare for war, and the Grey Wardens ride for Soldier's Peak.
> 
> Companion Story: [Like Maric (Loghain POV of the Landsmeet)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10736607)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, sex (mild), reference to rape (not explicit, part of original dialogue)
> 
> And here it is, lovely readers... ;)
> 
> Comments always welcome (and for this chapter definitely encouraged!) ~HigheverRains

There was wild fire in Loghain’s eyes, desperation and anger. His sword rang free, and his guards drew their weapons. 

In an instant Alistair was before her, knowing full well she was unarmed, though he had not drawn Maric’s blade. Oghren and Sten had, and flanked her, and Morrigan’s staff was in her hand, ready at any moment. 

In the tension, the whole world seemed frozen, until finally Loghain sneered.

“Traitors!” he spat, at the entire Landsmeet, as if an entire kingdom could be traitors except for him. “Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives!? You fought with us once, Eamon! You cared about this land once! Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk! None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land in the way _I_ have! How _dare_ you judge me!” Eideann moved from behind Alistair, giving him a small nod, and stepped forward, eyes cold.

“I _have_ spilled blood for Ferelden. And for centuries the Couslands have stood against evil and tyranny. I am the only one who _can_ judge you here, Teyrn Loghain.” She fixed him with the Cousland stare. “Call off your men, and we will settle this honorably.” He eyed her up, lips twisted in disgust, and then glared at her, scanning her gown. 

“Then let us end this,” he finally said, shaking his head. Did he imagine he would be fighting her in a dress? “I suppose we both knew it would come to this,” he told her, and that was true. Teyrn Loghain was a man of action. He always had been. A Landsmeet debate would never have been enough for him. She had to bring him down on his field, before the eyes of the Maker and all assembled. He considered her, waving his knights aside, and she stared back. “A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it’s more a compliment to you or to me?” 

“To you,” Eideann said coldly. “There’s nothing of quality in you to compliment me. Not anymore.” 

“The trial,” Alfstanna called down to them all, “will be single combat.” Loghain looked over her dress a moment, then smirked.

“Will you face me yourself, or have you a Champion.” 

Eideann reached for the laces of her gown, shedding the red Highever Weave and letting it cascade to the ground at her feet. And then she slipped from the gray silk chemise, until she stood in the Grey Warden tunic that she had worn beneath. She held out her hand for Leliana who came forth with her Grey Warden armor, and she slipped into it with the ease that came of too many months of strapping it in place. She was proud of how quickly she did it, to be honest, and how smooth the entire thing felt, like she had made a transition from Lady to Warrior and everyone had watched it happen there and then. She could be both. She stood for Ferelden. 

“I’ll fight _this_ duel myself,” she told him coldly, drawing the Cousland Blade and Duncan’s Sword and casting aside the scabbards to the pile of her discarded things. Leliana gathered them up, carrying them clear of the fight, and Eideann focused on Loghain. 

And they began to circle. 

The Bannorn stepped back to give them room, Loghain’s knights retreating to a safe distance, until it was only her and him in a space no larger than five paces across either way, and he smirked at her.

She was the Flame of Highever, justice burning in the dark, Champion of the Landsmeet, and Teyrna of Highever, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. She would not fail.

Loghain was fierce. She was willing to bet if he tried, he could slay a dragon alone. But she was fierce too, and younger, and on the side of the Landsmeet. It was _he_ who would not back down, not bend the knee to the decision of Ferelden. And it was _she_ who had to make him. Teyrnir to Teyrnir. 

His first volley came from almost nowhere, sharp and fast and heavy-hitting, and she barely had time to block as she twisted away and circled back, stepping nimbly across the carpets. His second attack she was ready for. He tried to stop her evasion, but she slipped away again, her blades contacting and barely missing the gap in his armor as he twisted away. 

They moved in circles, an intricate dance. Eideann ignored all else, watching his footwork, watching his eyes, watching his arms and his body. He had many more years of battle experience, it was true, but hers had taken her further into the depths. 

She had the grace of the elven warrior who had given her memories at the Brecilian Forest ruins. She had the experience of battling ogres in the broodmother’s den, and winning Bownammar back with a mere handful of people. She had won a Dwarven Glory Proving, and cleared a tower of abominations and demons. 

Loghain Mac Tir was just a man. A powerful one, and a warrior of renowned, but still just a man.

She knocked him back with surprise rather than strength, knowing he was stronger. She had little by way of defense. A dual-wielding style did not lend itself to a very firm defense anyway. But it was quick, and fast, faster than he at the very least. And she circled about him, whirling through the steps, hammering against him one by one by one, until suddenly she connected, and blood was drawn, and then the battle got serious.

He roared, and she danced back out of the reach of his blades before whipping about, eyes sharp, and catching him under his guard. He moved as if he would headbutt her in response, and she forced him back with Duncan’s sword at his middrift, cutting through the chain of his armor. He stepped back hurriedly, but she kept at it, until suddenly she just was not there.

It was the same sort of move she had pulled on Sten in Haven when he had challenged her. She whipped back, closing the distance, and her blades hit heavy and hard at the gap in his armor at the back of his knees. Loghain fell forward, and she kicked him down, until at last he was on his knees, unable to face her, and her blades were at the back of his neck.

“Enough!” he cried, and she paused a moment, then lowered her blades and stepped back. She circled about him, still holding the swords, and he watched her, panting, his eyes sharp and tired. “I underestimated you, Warden. I thought you were like Cailin, a child wanting to play at war. I was wrong.” She narrowed her gaze, then slipped Duncan’s sword from her right hand into her left, holding both point down there as she considered him. He shook his head, meeting her Cousland blue eyes. “There is a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died,” he told her quietly. “I yield.” 

“Yield?” She shook her head, narrowing her eyes in disappointment, voice quiet and meant just for him. “Do you have any idea the destruction you have wrought? You were so afraid of losing Ferelden to Orlesians, you lost it already to everything else, to things much worse. An Orlesian occupation did not taint the land black with Blight. An Orlesian occupation we can fight. The Blight? It threatens the world. When Maric gave you Gwaren, ancestral seat of the Theirins, he did not mean for you to use it to destroy all you built. But that is what you have done.” 

She considered the Landsmeet, then crouched before him, so they were at the same level. “A Teyrnir is earned, it is never given,” she told him quietly, the same voice her father had used to teach her the same thing. “You never earned that Teyrnir. You may have been the Hero of River Dane, but we do not live in that world anymore, and it is never enough to demand people follow you because you have served as their General once. People follow because you earn their loyalty. And the duty of those who lead is to serve. Forever. Even at the cost of their own lives. A Teyrn is not a regent, powerful and reigning and demanding loyalty. A Teyrn is a servant, who sacrifices everything of themselves to save everything else. We do not get to choose that. We have a duty to everyone in Ferelden to defend and protect and do what is right, regardless of the cost to ourselves. Slavery? Torture? The massacre of Cailin’s advisors? The betrayal at Ostagar, where you pried those floor tiles loose and let the darkspawn come in?”

She rose, anger rippling through her. “I lit that beacon; you never came. Good men died that day, and many, many good men have died since. And those deaths are at your feet and mine. But at least those who died because of decisions I made, I can live with. Your regrets are proof that you cannot live with those choices, because you never made them in good faith.” She looked up then, at Anora, who was watching silently, waiting. And then she closed her eyes, sighing. “Teyrn Mac Tir, as Teryna Cousland of Highever, highest affirmed rank in the Landsmeet at this time, I sentence you to death for the crimes of treason, slavery, attempted assassination, actual assassination, torture, dereliction of duty, and refusal to abide by the decision of the highest governing body of the land.” It sounded so official on her lips. “You will die for what you have done.”

“Wait!” She knew that voice, soft and calm. Riordan. She glanced up to see him making his way through the nobles, still bearing the injuries of his long imprisonment. “There is another option,” he said, drawing alongside her. “The Teyrn is a warrior and general of great renown. Let him be of use.” He looked to Loghain. “Let him go through the Joining.” 

Eideann felt ill. There was so much Riordan had not experienced, even in spite of his own suffering at the hands of Rendon Howe and Teyrn Loghain. 

“There are too few of us,” Riordan said quietly. “It’s not a matter of what we _like_ ; it’s a matter of what we _must_ do. Our duty is to slay the Archdemon. We aren’t judges. Kinslayers, blood mages, traitors, rebels, carta thugs, common bandits: anyone with the skill and the mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome among us. There are _three_ of us in all of Ferelden. And there are…compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon.”

But he was wrong. She was a judge. She was not there as a Warden in that instant, but as a Teyrna, and that made her every inch responsible for meting judgment. 

Regardless, his was a false choice. If they needed more Wardens, how many capable warriors stood in that very room who could join them? Loghain did not have to be one of them when there were many soldiers who would gladly step up in the wake of the Blight’s destructive forces against their Bannorns. She had no doubt if they needed more Wardens, they could find more. To suggest his was the only help they needed was foolish beyond measure. 

Even if she trusted a traitor and known enemy of Wardens at her back against an Archdemon, she had more reasons that those to say no. Loghain did not deserve to sully the name of the Ferelden Wardens with his. Nor did he deserve the opportunity after all he had done to stand against the Blight to reclaim his honor. He had not stood against it yet, and there was no guarantee he would now either. And there was another reason too, one she heard whispering to her, and that was what truly decided it. 

She thought of Sophia Dryden, the former Arlessa who had fought for the throne and lost. She had been forced into the Wardens, and had manipulated them into an army to overthrown the king. Her actions had led to the eradication of the Ferelden Wardens for three centuries. The cost of that was apparent now, with only Alistair and Eideann left among that number, and Riordan the sole man to slip through the Orlesian border. 

She knew, after all of this, that Loghain was a man of action. Loghain did not surrender, and did not give in. He was _that_ sort of man. And _that_ was enough.

She had learned her lessons from Soldier’s Peak. And she had learned them from Riordan himself. 

_Be firm in your beliefs, protect people from their ignorance, and be as loyal as you can to your brothers._

This was all three. She shook her head.

“No.” 

Anora swept towards her, angrily and desperate.

“The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?!” she insisted angrily. “If he survives, you gain a general! If not, you have your revenge! Doesn’t that satisfy you?!”

“Absolutely not!” It was Alistair, speaking for the first time before the entire Landsmeet, voice shaking with the rage Eideann herself felt cold in the pit of her belly. “Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed _us_ for the deed! He hunted us down like _animals_! He tortured you! How can we simply forget that?!” he insisted. Riordan’s look was calm, considering. Eideann shook her head. Her decision was made, with all the details she had in her hands, politically trained mind aware of details even Alistair did not know, a true listing of the atrocities that lay at Loghain’s feet.

“No,” she said again simple, staring at Loghain. “The rule of law will be served. He will die for his crimes.” Or many more would.

“You _can’t_ do this!” Anora said furiously. “My father may have been wrong, but he is still a hero to the people.”

“And which people would those be?” Eideann shot back coldly. “I am the Teyrna of Highever. Your crown is not even set,” she said quietly, and Anora went as white as a sheet. Loghain shook his head.

“Anora,” he said quietly, glancing away. “Hush. It is over.” 

“Stop treating me like a child!” Anora exclaimed. This is serious!” 

His eyes tracked up to Eideann’s somber and quiet now. 

“Daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever.” Those words were for her as well, she knew. Loghain sighed. “Just make it quick, Warden. I can face the Maker knowing Ferelden is in _your_ hands.” Eideann crossed her arms, and let her gaze slide to Alistair. He stepped forward, drawing Maric’s sword, and a glint of recognition shone in Loghain’s eyes, a twist of a mirthless smile at the irony. And then his head rolled.

Blood covered them all then, splattering over them, particularly Anora, who dropped to her knees over her father, sobbing. 

The Landsmeet was quiet, and Eideann looked up, Cousland blues surveying the subdued nobility of Ferelden. Eamon descended the steps of the balcony to join them, and Eideann carefully sheathed her blades in the scabbards Leliana held for her. 

“So it’s decided,” Eamon said quietly, his voice carrying because of the vaulted ceilings. “Alistair will take his father’s throne.” 

“Wait! No!” Alistair stared at him. “Nobody’s decided that, have they?”

“He does not _want_ the throne!” Anora said, pushing herself up, eyes angry and desperate. “It’s clear, he abdicates in favor of me.” Eamon gave her a cold look and a shake of head. 

“I hardly thing you’re the appropriate person to mediate this, Anora,” he told her. The other nobility were gathering about too, emerging from the balconies and drawing closer to see what would come next. Eamon glanced to Eideann then, standing in her armor, eyes dark and stormy. She was Teyrna of Highever, the last Cousland, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. “What say you, my friend?” he asked.

The Wardens had won the Landsmeet after all. 

She gazed at Loghain’s headless body a moment, then her eyes slid to Alistair, solemn and soft.

“I hope your route here is clear,” he said quietly. Eideann met his amber eyes and saw the fear there, and the settling anger, and the emptiness and weariness of vengeance, and the hard determination that had come to him much later.

“Do you think you’re ready to be king?” she asked him quietly. It was forever after all. There would be no turning back.

“As ready as anyone ever is, I suppose,” he said before remembering everyone was wathching. “Which is to say _yes_. I’m ready.” But Eideann was not done. She narrowed her gaze. 

_Tell them why._

“What makes you a better choice than Anora?” She wanted the Landsmeet to know it, but she wanted _him_ to know it. He wanted the words to come from him. She wanted him to tell them. 

“I can do this,” he said fiercely. “I may not know politics the way she does, but I know what needs to be done.” Eideann was proud of the conviction in his voice. He had already outgrown Cailin in that. “I can get our armies marching towards the Blight. _She_ only cares about power.” Eidean met his eyes, and for a moment willed all her love to flow through her gaze to him. He knew that look by now, and he nodded. He knew her heart.

“And you’re willing,” she asked quietly ,”to give up your freedom?”

“If that’s the price of ending the Blight, it’s my duty as a Grey Warden,” he said simply. “Couslands are not the only ones who always do their duty first.” Maker, she loved him. She wanted to cry. Her eyes slipped to Anora.

“Who do _you_ think I should choose?” she asked quietly. The promise stood before them. _I will support you in the Landsmeet._ And she had killed her father in payment.

The words that had been unspoken in that promise were the same that Anora herself had settled on. Yes, there had been a deal, but it was not set in stone. Their agreement lasted only so long as it proved in their interests to do so, same as most political agreements. They had both known it, or at least both acted accordingly.

Anora’s grey gaze met Eideann’s, and she knew. In that moment, everything between them was bare, and she recognized in Eideann the political creature that had swung an entire Landsmeet in a matter of days. 

And her voice shook when she gave her answer.

“There is no doubt on the subject!” she declared, the waver in her voice sounding loud her desperation. Eideann nodded, looking away, and considering again the Landsmeet. She thought of Isabela, of the Knight of Dawn, and glanced to Eamon.

“I agree,” she said quietly. “No doubt.” Her eyes scanned the nobility, the peers of her father and mother, her brother, herself. She had known some all her life. Others she had never met before. All of them were waiting now for her. SHewas the highest rank there, the kingmaker, and their champion, and she could see in their eyes the path she had to take.

She had read it right all along. 

A good ruler and a good man. Ferelden needed both.

They had not followed Alistair there. They had not chosen Anora. Anora did not have the heart to lead Ferelden without someone to temper that political chill, and Alistair could not rule a pit of vipers alone. 

She thought of Highever, of the weight she bore in those chambers, and all the politics that had flipped the Landsmeet. She thought of all the strength a Teyrna’s voice called forth, all the power of an ancient line, and she threw that down the only way she could, with all the force and might of the Couslands, arbiter of the debate.

“Alistair will be king,” she said, voice firm and clear, all the authority of rank ringing in her voice. “And _I_ will rule beside him.”

There was a hush, and Alistair was staring, and then finally he spoke, his voice quiet and disbelieving.

“Really?” he asked, “you will? This is where I wake up usually…Or everyone points and laughs because I have no clothes on…” Eideann gave the slightest of smiles, and her eyes slid to Eamon, who recovered quickly from his surprise.

“So be it,” he said firmly. “Anora, the Landsmeet has decided against you. You must now swear fealty to our king and relinquish all claim to the throne for yourself and your heirs.” Anora glared at him, taking a step forward angrily.

“If you think I will swear that oath, Eamon,” she snapped, “you know nothing of me!” Eideann’s gaze slid to her, and she found the woman glaring back.

“Anora,” Eideann heard herself say. “It is not wise to be unreasonable now.” She did not hear the threat in her voice, instead twisting her lips into a sneer.

“Reason clearly had nothing to do with _your_ choice, _Warden_.” She spat.

“Teyrna Eideann Cousland,” Eideann replied quietly, correcting her. “And reason had everything to do with it. After the destruction you’ve wrought, I cannot let you have free reign over this land again. You and your father have done enough.”

“Put her in the tower for now,” Alistair said, cutting them both off and putting up his hands, voice official and serious. “If I fall to the Blight, she can have her throne.” Anora blinked, staring at him.

“You would give me a chance at the throne after all this?” she asked, incredulous. He gave her a dark glare.

“If I _fall_ ,” he said coldly. “I said _if_ I _fall_. I won’t kill you while there’s a chance that could happen. Someone has to take this Blight seriously.” Eideann felt a swell of pride at his decision. Anora sniffed.

“That is uncharacteristically wise of you,” she muttered, a veiled insult. Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, well, don’t let it get around. I have a reputation,” he said grimly, looking away. The royal guards descended then, and Anora went quietly, hatred burning in her eyes, schemes already at work. But Eideann was not concerned. Those she could counter. After all, she had outplayed Anora in this little game. She could do so again. And regardless, it was true. The Landsmeet had not chosen Anora or Alistair. The choice had been between her and Loghain. The Landsmeet had chosen her. 

Eamon sighed as Anora was escorted away, and then turned his gaze on Alistair.

“Your Highness, would you address the Landsmeet?” he asked quietly, and Alistair hesitated a moment, then stepped forward. Eideann turned, shrinking back behind him and making way a little so he could address his Bannorn.

“I may be Maric’s son,” he said after a moment’s pause, “but I am also a Grey Warden. I swore an oath to protect the land against the Blight.” He glanced to Eamon. “Until then, Arl Eamon will be my regent.” Eamon bowed graciously in acceptance, and Alistair’s eyes fell on her then, still wondering, still awed at what she had done. “My fellow Grey Warden, Teyrna Cousland, will take Loghain’s place as the leader of my armies.” Eidean bowed a soldier’s bow to him. 

“I could do no less, my King,” she murmured, and he gave a slightly amused sniff, then drew a deep breath, glancing back to the Landsmeet.

“Everyone, get ready to march,” he said, with more force than he had managed before. “It’s going to take all of Ferelden’s strength to survive this Blight. But we will face it. And we will defeat it!”

Arl Bryland clapped first, a smile on his usually sober face, and then one by one they fell into applause, determined smiles in their faces. Alistair glanced to her and she nodded, and then she turned away, fading back into the background to let him have that moment there as King. Her eyes skipped up to Riordan, who was watching her in silence, and she raised her chin a little.

“There are many who may be Grey Wardens, if we are so set on that path,” she said quietly. “But you should know, when this is done, we will be breaking ties with Weisshaupt. Ferelden must be free.” Riordan just smiled and bowed his head.

“You make for a dangerous Queen,” he said quietly, and she watched him walk out. And then she turned back to the Landsmeet, all smiles gone, and considered them all.

“As Royal Commander,” she called, and they hushed, “we must gather our armies against the Blight. There is a location where an army has already begun to form, Soldier’s Peak, located in the Coastlands midway between Amaranthine and Highever in the mountains there. I have already garnered the support of Orzammar, the Dalish elves, and the Circle of Magi with the Templars there. We need infantry, Ferelden longbowmen, and cavalry. Any you have left to spare. Those of you who are uncertain where to find Soldier’s Peak may ride for Redcliffe, where Bann Teagan of Rainesfere has been assembling the forces of the southeastern Arlings. Arl Eamon will ride northward with his armies after rejoining them there. We have no time to waste now. The Blight is already here. Do what you can, and quickly.” There were nods this time, and clapping for her too, and then they began to file out, though not before first coming one by one to swear fealty to Alistair as King. They did not need to swear fealty to her. She had placed him on the throne. That fealty was implied.

She took the opportunity to slip out then, and took all but Zevran and Sten with her. She left them to guard Alistair, distrustful of the royal guardsmen after the ease with which they had escaped Fort Drakon. The others followed in her wake, silent, as she crossed the chamber and left by the side door, avoiding the crowds as she hurried to the stables and her escape.

Maker, what had she done…? She could almost feel the ripples echoing across the Bannorn. And that did not make her feel any better.

***

She sat in the dining room at the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate, twisting a glass of dark red wine round and round in her hands, watching it stain the glass in circles that quickly faded away again. In other areas of the house, preparations for everyone’s departure was immediately underway. Her companions bustled about, gathering their belongings and hurriedly packing. Their order to move was of course for them as well. Only she was unmoving, determined to wait it out.

She felt like she’d set off a violent storm in the middle of everyone’s lives. She should have told him perhaps, but with Anora around and her decision resting on the cooperation of the woman to bring down Loghain, she had not dared. After all, she promised Anora to support her. As long as it was in her interest to do so. And to say otherwise to Alistair earlier would had invited trouble. She was almost certain Anora had been having her watched.

Either way, what was done was done. She felt uneasy. And she did not want to drink.

But she did really want to drink. So she downed the whole glass.

She had made herself _Queen_. She had needed to win the Landsmeet, and so she had, any way possible. And she had needed to defeat Loghain. And she had, any way possible. But the more she had considered it, the more she knew that Anora could not be the strong Queen Ferelden needed. She was ineffective at best, and disastrous at worse. The Alienage Uprising had happened under her. The Civil War had happened under her. She had not even had the wherewithal to call a Landsmeet months sooner and settle the damn thing. Instead, she had allowed her father to seize the power of the throne in the wake of her husband’s rather timely death, and proceeded to do nothing effective to win it back.

But Alistair was no King, not yet, at least not in the political sense. She could not leave him to rule alone. 

_The Couslands have stood by the Theirin line since the Alamarri Accords._ She would just have to do so literally.

She had won the Landsmeet. She had. Not anyone else. 

In effect, they had chosen her as Queen in that decision alone. And she was obligated to keep Ferelden strong, no matter what the costs.

“So.” She looked up sharply to see Alistair in the doorway, golden plate armor shining in the lamplight. She almost dropped her wineglass, rising hurriedly to her feet. “Strange story,” he said, pushing off from the doorframe. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one.” There was something sharp in his tone. Her heart sank. Yes, she had done it for Ferelden, but had the cost been Alistair’s trust? “This fellow gets made king, and then gets engaged, all on the same day.” She licked her lips and forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Yes, about that…” He cut her off with a cool shake of his head.

“I’m actually fine with becoming king,” he told her, closing the door behind them to give them privacy. “I think there’s some good I could do. I’ve had some time to come to terms with that.” His eyes narrowed and he stared at her. The days of the awkward virgin Templar were long behind them now. “I suppose,” he finally said, “I’m more curious about…you know…the engagement.” She opened her mouth again, but he held up his hand and she fell silent. “I _like_ the idea,” he admitted, and she froze. “But…are you sure?” 

Wait, he was checking with her? She felt a blush rise on her cheeks. She thought of the rose, now merely faded petals pressed in her trunk. She thought of his soft compliments that never felt disingenuous. She thought of his sincere kisses, hungry and wanting. She thought of the way he felt around her, within her, and had to look away a moment before she went bright red. 

All her life, her mother had been trying to set her into a political match. She would have ended up with someone in the end, and had always presumed it would be a political match, not a love match. The idea of this one was not foreign to her in the slightest. And yet…she chose this. It _was_ a love match, as well as serving its purpose. Alistair was no politician, but _she was_. That was how she cold prove to be worthy of him. He would need her help. And she knew already that no matter what, she also needed him. She had been unwilling to accept the selfish reasons for her decision. In fact, she had heavily weighed them as arguments _against_ the match when she had been trying to decide on the path, just so it could not skew her decision. But he was her family. He was home. 

Maker. Alistair was home.

“Am I sure I want to marry you?” she said softly, looking up into his eyes. “Yes.” His somber expression slipped easily into a smile.

“Oh, I guess that saves me having to ask then,” he laughed, relieved, and then sighed. “They’ll expect an heir you know,” he told her. Leaving aside the fact that a Landsmeet existed to choose the next king even if there was a plain heir, sheknew that there was that expectation. His look was cool again, worried. His eyes slipped away, towards the ground. “With the taint in our blood, it’s hard enough for a Grey Warden to have a child on their own. For two of them…?” His brows knitted. “Every Grey Warden I knew who had children had them before they took the Joining. Having an heir…might not be possible.” She drew a deep breath, biting at her lower lip.

She did not even want children, not after the number of children she had witnessed hurt or dead because of her or her choices. But it was not the time for such things, and she had a list a mile long of duties yet to do before ‘having a prince/princess’ became the first priority. Top of that was ‘kill Urthemiel’ and she felt that rather more pressing.

“Well,” she said after a moment, quirking a slight smile. “It won’t be for the lack of trying.” He laughed again, and the sound warmed her heart. He closed the distance between them, pulling her into a kiss.

“That’s an excellent point,” he murmured against her lips. “Good thing we got started when we did, hm?” She did blush then and he grinned. “You? Blushing? Eideann…how uncharacteristic of you.” She just forced herself to meet his eyes.

“You aren’t angry?” she asked him quietly, and he chuckled, pressing her back against the dining table.

“Maker, I was scared shitless. Halfway through all of that nonsense political debate you were doing, I realized you planned to give yourself up if we lost. It took me all this time since last night to work out why you named me the heir to Highever. And then I was just…panicking. And then you started taking off all your clothes in front of everyone…” 

“Not all of them…” she insisted, and he laughed again, then kissed her, mouth hot and firm on hers. His hands came about her waist, one climbing over the soft silk of her Warden tunic, and the other holding them flush against one another. 

“Do you think they’d care if we made use of their dining table?” he asked after a moment, eyeing it up. She gave a shocked noise, shaking her head with a silly grin, and pushed him back.

“Maker’s breath,” she gasped, moving away from the table. “Not here. Anyone could come in. And that’s quite unsanitary.” He just gave her a wry smile, and then caught her hand in his, pulling her close again.

“Then Maker take the Blight for an hour while everyone else packs. I need you. Now, Eideann.” She flushed red again, but pulled lightly on his hand, and then gently led him from the room and up the steps, avoiding the bustling servants as they made their preparations. 

She pulled him into her chambers, were Angus looked up startled from the rug by the fireplace, and Alistair shut the door behind them. They set to tearing at the straps of their armor, shedding pauldrons and grieves and vambraces, leather and quilted tunics, until they were bare before one another, mouths pressed together, and he walked her back to the bed. She tumbled back, pulling him with her, until they lay, breathless, skin to skin, and he grinned.

“Eideann…” he breathed. “Marry me?” She laughed, and kissed him hard.

When they did emerge, Arl Eamon was waiting, clad in riding leathers and thick Antivan leather gloves, scarlet cloak at his back. He considered them, giving a slight bow to them both with a secretive smile on his lips for their rosy complexions, and then addressed them. 

“I have been waiting for you, so I may make my farewells.” His eyes were soft. “It is several weeks at a normal pace to ride to Redcliffe, but I shall cut that time to half if we are lucky, and ride cross-country to Soldier’s Peak. Inside the month, your Majesties, we shall have an army to battle the Blight, bigger the one sent to Ostagar.” Alistair reached to clasp his arm, nodding.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For all you have done for me, Arl Eamon.” Eamon smiled, and held his arm fast. And then he stepped back, and he turned to Eideann.

“Your father was a good man, and your mother fiercer than any woman I have known until now. Your name the Flame of Highever has been well-earned, my lady. I do not fear to leave our young King in your care.” She smiled slightly, meeting his gaze.

“He takes as much care of me, your grace,” she replied quietly.

“It was a dangerous move, and the right one, with the outcome as it was,” he told her.

“Be wary in the role of Regent, your grace. Some of those in the Bannorn will not come to heel easily.” He just laughed and shook his head.

“Your mother trained you well, I see.” There was a soft voice at the door, and Bann Teagan crossed to them then, eyes warm and look hard.

“Eideann. Alistair.” Eideann stepped past Arl Eamon and into an embrace, feeling Teagan’s arms tight about her. She closed her eyes a moment, holding him close, the last traces of her brother’s life there, in Angus, in Zevran’s soft teasing, and in the sword she carried at her back to remind her of home. “Be safe,” he murmured into her ear, closing his eyes as well and holding her close. “Fergus would have been so proud of you.” She drew back then, tears standing in her eyes. It meant so much more from him. 

It had always been Cailin, Teagan, Fergus, and Anora. And while Anora had been the distant sort, she had still been one of that number. Eideann had never known any of them very well, excepting Fergus, particularly Anora as Fergus kept his distance once it was made clear she belonged to Cailin and he to her. But with only Anora and Teagan left, it had hurt to turn on Anora, even if it had been the same game the Queen herself was playing. If she had not done all the extra work, if she had not gathered the Bannorn to her side through countless tiresome hours, Anora would not have stood with her. Theirs had always been an alliance of convenience.

Teagan was all that was left. And his words meant the world. He carefully pulled back, knocking her chin up a little with gentle hands.

“I suppose,” he said with a small smile, “even Queens occasionally climb trees as well.” She laughed, and he turned to Alistair, who he embraced as well.

“Alistair. Maker’s breath…” Alistair smiled too and drew back. Teagan kept hold of his arm. “When we meet again, I have something to give you…” Alistair blinked and Teagan’s expression grew somber. “Your Mother’s amulet…it was broken when you were little…” Alistair reached inside his tunic and pulled forth the ceramic piece on its black leather cord. Teagan’s eyes glanced to it and he smiled slightly, sighing. “Or perhaps not, it seems.” 

“You did this?” Alistair asked quietly. Teagan just reached to close Alistair’s fist about the pendant and smiled.

“Some things may shatter, but we can always pick up the pieces. And some things must be remembered.” Alistair’s eyes flickered to his hand, then back to Teagan’s face.

“Thank you.”

“Make me a promise, little brother, to always look after Teyrna Cousland. I would hate to have to decide which of you is more brother or sister to me should you not.” Alistair smiled, then nodded, and Teagan pulled away, giving a nod to his real brother, Eamon. “The vanguard is ready, brother. We’re all set to ride when you are.” He adjusted his own scarlet cloak, and gave them one last nod.

“Then let’s be off,” Eamon declared, adjusting his riding gloves. “It’s a long journey, and we must make it as quickly as possible.” He considered Eideann and Alistair a moment, and then gave another final bow of head. “May the Maker watch over you both,” he said quietly, and then turned away.

Eideann and Alistair watched them go, and then Eideann’s chin rose slightly as she drew a deep breath.

“I’ll…see to the horses,” Alistair said after a moment, and she laughed.

“Will you, King Alistair?” she teased, and he sighed. “If you wish to, no one will stop you.” He hesitated and then glanced to her. 

“Maybe I will pack my things first.” So they returned back up the steps. Eideann forsook her trunk, though it was lovely and she wished she could take it with her, in favor of her light pack. Into it she bundled only what she absolutely needed. She would wear her armor, and her weapons, so that included only the book on the Old Gods, Alistair’s rose petals settled into a small bundle that took up no room and weighed nothing, but held the entire world, and then all the papers she was carrying: treaties, Alistair’s legitimization as her heir, and Cailin’s letters. The rest she filled with the gown Leliana had made her, because she wanted it somewhere safe, even if that meant the Peak. It filled up most of the space, so she left it at that, leaving a little room for food if need be. After all, there was always her saddlebags. 

She still had Duncan’s Sword, laying beside the Cousland Blade, which she had decided really should just be called Duty. She picked up both, and then shouldered her pack, backing out of the room and whistling softly for Angus to come with her.

She took the steps two at a time, Warden scout armor comfortable and right. She was a Grey Warden first, that was her priority, and she had been true when she spoke to Riordan. They would break ties with Weisshaupt, because Ferelden’s monarchy must be free of outside interference, and Weisshaupt had not sent aid to Ferelden all year, despite the ongoing Blight that have ravaged the lands. For all the Orlesian Wardens massed on the border, only Riordan had come to Ferelden properly, and he was Highever born.

She did not need Weisshaupt. She was the Warden-Commander. She would act as she believed was best. And that meant the old institution needed to change, just as the old adage: doing anything to stop the Blight. That was not who the Grey Wardens were, not anymore, not really. She had lines in the sand she would not cross, moral barriers she dare not tear asunder. And so did Alistair. That would be the legacy they left. 

Obviously some cooperation would remain necessary, as she was certain she did not know all there was to know of Grey Wardens yet, but at the same time, if she did end up facing an Archdemon, she was hardly going to be in a position of ignorance compared to the other Wardens. She could trade the knowledge of Urthemiel for theirs. And that was a matter for a later time. 

In the Great Hall she found her companions, slowly gathering, looking ready for journeys once again. Zevran swept her a large bow, and Leliana smiled. Morrigan’s look was the best though, a knowing quiet acceptance, and dare she say proud smile. Eideann fixed her with a look, and drew close, and the witch met her eyes.

“My friend,” she said softly, watching Morrigan’s yellow gaze flicker softly in the lamplight. “I could not have made it so far without you. Do not forget, you still owe me that favor. Someday soon, I shall need to call it in.” Morrigan considered her, then raised her chin, face a mask of calm.

“And I will keep it,” she said quietly, but there was a tone of finality in her voice. Eideann turned away then, considering them all, her eclectic crew.

“We ride for Soldier’s Peak,” she announced, “to the armies we’ve gathered. Arl Eamon will bring the forces of the Bannorn to meet us there.” 

“So be it,” Sten said. “We will see this through to the end.” 

“Warden,” Oghren said after a moment, “it’s been an honor. Don’t let the crown go to your head and all.” 

“How could I?” Eideann laughed, considering him. “You wouldn’t let me.” Alistair emerged from the upper levels, back over his shoulder, shield on top, Warden cloak fastened about him as hers was, and eyed her up quietly. Then he paused before her, holding out his hand, where Maric’s dragonbone sword lay in his fist. 

“Loghain said,” he told her after a moment of looking at it, “that you were like Maric anyway.” His eyes were dark and full of love as he met her own. “And the Commander of the King’s Army should carry Maric’s sword.” She knew he wanted Duncan’s back, and so they swapped, and she strapped her blades to her back, Cousland Duty and the King’s Justice, and gave him a soldier’s bow. 

“To Soldier’s Peak,” she told him quietly, and he nodded, fastening Duncan’s sword at his belt.

“To Soldier’s Peak, and the end of all this.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagna makes a rune; the Grey Wardens gather for a war council; Dagna and Sandal have a gift for the Grey Wardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

“Now, I’m not saying it’s going to be perfect,” she said, bending low over the coarse lyrium’s speckled runestone and painstakingly hammering a line into it with the tip of her chisel. “But it will be pretty close.” She looked up, reaching for the small vial of lyrium, heated to bubbling over a flame hotter than the forges of Orzammar, and poured the slightest bit into the groove. It flowed into all the cracks, filling the etched shape just enough, and then she turned away, plunging it immediately into the snowbank beside her using a pair of tongues. She waited a moment, lightheaded, and then pulled it out, grinning and examining her work. “There,” she said, holding it aloft, the lyrium set into solid form again in the twisting shapes of the rune-markings. “Is that how you do it?” 

“Enchantment?” 

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” She tossed the rune lightly in her hands, catching it gracefully, and then turned to Emissary Fellhammer. “Is this the sort of thing you’re looking for, General?” The dwarf considered the stone under the mass of braids in his brown beard, then stroked the braids down and nodded. 

“How long will it take to make more?”

“Not long, provided there’s enough lyrium. I assume you brought some when you marched?” The General sighed, then motioned to his Second to go and find their supplies, and turned back to consider her.

“So, you were Smith Caste?” 

“Daughter of Janar,” she said cheerfully, then sighed, smile slipping a little. If he had not disowned her entirely for coming to the surface. 

She had arrived at the Circle Tower and presented herself on the recommendation of the Grey Wardens, and been immediately bustled into preparations. The Circle Tower had seen better days, but even a mess it was fascinating. Those fleshy nodes…they made her think of darkspawn. But the Circle had no darkspawn, and she was told they were from abominations and a tear in the Veil. She wanted to begin studying immediately, but the Circle was moving northward, to the hills, where the Warden base of Soldier’s Peak lay waiting.

It was an odd experience standing atop a mountain, nothing between her and the sky. It was exhilarating too. All about her, dwarves and elves and Mages and Templars mingled. And a few men calling themselves the Drydens. The man stewarding the keep was Levi Dryden, Master of Coins, or so he claimed. He had done a fair job making sure everyone was outfitted and getting what they needed, be that herbs for medicinal poultices or armor. His brother, Mikhael Dryden, ran the armory, and was the finest smoth Dagna had seen outside of Orzammar itself. The way the man folded steel. It was like magic. And Dagna liked magic.

Most of the dwarves would not speak to her, and the Mages were still wary of her madness, which she attributed to the fact they all seemed quite timid about their magic. But the tranquil were logical and determined in their own way, and she liked that. The surface dwarves did speak to her, particularly Bodahn the merchant and his son Sandal, the lyrium-addled savant who could literally enchant anything. 

She had rediscovered rune-making for herself, almost by accident, and the tranquil had begun learning from her techniques, which meant they suddenly had access to high quality runes instead of the mediocre ones that were so often seen in that age. They were good enough that now the General himself was coming to see them.

With her craft, Sandal’s ability to enchant almost anything, and Mikhael pouring every ore they could get their hands on into making better weapons for the armies, they had developed a production line that rivalled the forges of Orzammar, there at Soldier’s Peak. 

It was exciting! 

There was the other work to do as well, of course. So many people needed to be fed and kept within shelter. Soldier’s Peak itself had been scoured and recently repaired, its towers climbing high into the clouds at such a height it made her dizzy and a little nervous to look, just in case. The inside was huge. There were basic chambers and an archive located on the first floor, and below that steps that led to a dungeon that rivalled the halls of the Shaperate in Orzammar. An armory that was stocked with Warden gear was off-limits by orders of the Steward Levi Dryden, but the rest of the chambers were lined with ancient stores, now fast filling up with their own goods. The second floor was a large hall where the dining chambers were held, and a few of the Soldiers held nightly rounds of Wicked Grace before the roaring fires fed by magic in the hearths. The private Warden rooms were above, and the barracks. The barracks they used to house their armies, or those that wanted to be inside. The dwarves kept themselves in the first, and the second level was filled with Templars and Mages, scattered together under the watchful eye of the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander Greagoir. Dagna slept there, among the Tranquil. The third barracks floor in the tower had been devoted to the Drydens. The Dalish insisted on keeping to their aravels, which were sprawled out in a massive camp beside the eastern gate and out onto the field of snow-covered ash that was the base of the dormant volcano. Dagna had wondered for a long time what the space had been used for, long ago, until Mikhael Dryden had told her that Soldier’s Peak was built before the fall of Griffons, and once it had been a major staging point for aerial assaults. She peered in awe at those open spaces now, and pictured Grey Wardens who could fly. And it all made her quite a bit dizzy. 

Beyond the Dalish encampment, which now included three of the Dalish clans, if that were to be believed, where training grounds where archers practiced their aim, soldiers battled one another in mock fighting, and dwarven infantry went through the movements that would need to change now they were no longer in the Deep Roads. A small contingent of Legion of the Dead had even come topside, led by a man called Kardol who had so many tattoos across his face, his features had vanished behind them. They were distinguishable in their black and silver armor, cold eyes like death itself. Dagna avoided them. They made her shudder.

And then there was the creepy tower that Levi Dryden kept sealed up tight. She heard that a Warden mage had been living in it, doing all sorts of horrible magic, and she wanted to see it on the one hand, but on the other she was glad it was sealed up tight and Levi was not confirming any rumors. Best that some people didn’t know.

Lesson one of living in a Circle: Blood Magic bad.

She turned back to the runestones piled on the table and smiled to Sandal who was watching her with big, guileless eyes and a wonky smile. 

“Enchantment?” he asked, and she nodded, grinning.

“Yes,” she said, picking up another runestone. “Enchantment!” There was a sharp crackle and then a rumble that rolled towards them from the coast, and she froze, looking up. Rumbles underground meant cave ins…here she was not sure what they meant. 

And then a great flash split the sky.

“By the ancestors, what was that?!” she exclaimed, stepping back. Mikhael gave a laugh, shaking his head.

“They didn’t tell you?” he asked, looking to her with dark eyes while he hammered away at a sword. 

“Tell me what? What is it?” 

“A thunderstorm,” the smith said. “Maybe rain soon, or snow this high up perhaps. We’re safe enough for the moment.”

“A thunderstorm?” Dagna stared into the sky, awed. “Is it…normal? How does it work?”

“They say there are dragons along the Storm Coast. It’s where we get the name,” he told her, quenching the sword in a trough by his anvil, then examining the blade. “Be careful, dwarf,” he said, gaze flickering to her, smiling wickedly. “You’re just about the size to be a good dragon snack.”

Dagna just looked up as another wave of lightning bounced across the stormy sky, and she grinned.

Dragons that made the sky roar. And Griffons. Sod, she loved the surface!

***

Eideann considered the rising towers of Soldier’s Peak on the mountain ahead and let out a small sigh, glad to have made it there without incident. Smoke billowed from the chimney stacks, and the entire place seemed alive. They led their horses up the tunnel, cleared of all rubble and widened by the work of the dwarves, and to the Southern Gate, where they were met with fanfare. Someone atop the walls cried down to within at their approach, and the portcullis rose to admit them.

One of Levi’s many nephews and cousins took charge of their horses, leading them to a small stables they had rebuilt in the courtyard. Eideann, pack on her shoulder looked about, amazed.

“They certainly did some fine work on this,” Alistair breathed beside her, and she nodded. The entire place had taken on the bustle of a small city, and beyond the Eastern Gate rows of tents and military drills went on to almost the edge of the dormant volcano. 

They were met by Levi Dryden, whom she had named Steward, and the Emissaries sent by the Dalish, the Dwarves, and the Circle of Magi, who each gave their respective greetings. Eideann greeted each of them back.

“The Keepers would like to speak with you shortly, but understand you have had a long journey,” Caron reported, the Dalish emissary, who had a soft look and a sharp aim. Eideann nodded.

“And the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander Greagoir arrived two days hence,” the Tranquil Pether told her. 

“I shall summon them all to a council and then all of us can meet, if that is appropriate,” Eideann said softly, and that appeared to be agreeable for the most part. She considered the towers, once crumbling, now built strong again. “How did it get repaired so quickly.” 

“That’s how.” General Fellhammer motioned up the walkway around the tower, where a tunnel entrance had been reinforced and cleared. She had assumed it some sort of mine, but now realized exactly how wrong she was. “After your return from Orzammar, Warden, House Helmi led a plunge into the Deep Roads to secure Caridin’s Cross, Ortan Thaig, and Cadash Thaig as marked on your maps. And they found this…It leads down into a part of the Deep Roads we haven’t seen for centuries. Eideann narrowed her eyes, then considered the entrance. Deep Roads access right under the Warden base? There was brilliance in it, certainly, and also something to be very concerned about. 

“Is it secure as well?” she asked. “We won’t be attacked from behind, will we?” 

“It’s a minor crossroads down there. King Bhelen has established an outpost at the base and armed those that are guarding it well. He won’t let it fall to the ‘spawn, Warden. Have no fear.” Eideann nodded, then sighed.

“Then, let me have a moment, and I shall arrange for a council,” she said quietly. 

“I can set those things in order,” Levi told her. “If you’ll follow me, we’ve cleared the place up a great deal. There are rooms available for you within.” Eideann considered her companions, and then gave a soldier’s bow to the representatives of her army, following Levi up the steps to the main doors.

The inside was clean, and bustling. Levi had been true to his word, getting the place up and running until it was a veritable hive of activity. The kitchens were in full gear, feeding an entire army, and Eideann wondered at the smell of fresh Waking Sea salmon. She had not had fish since Highever. She had forgotten for a moment how close they were to the Waking Sea itself. 

She had been forced to move quietly through the roads to reach the Peak. She had given Amaranthine a wide berth on the journey, since she still had no idea if Thomas was willing to capitulate or not to the decision of the Landsmeet, and she could not be involved in another civil war yet. The journey had been little more than a week, silent and travelling inconspicuously, avoiding the roads where they could to escape detection. They had no guards, only their original companions, despite the fact that the Command of the Royal Guard had insisted she take some with her. She had pulled rank on him as Commander of the entire King’s Army, and informed him that she needed him to get better control over his men before she would trust to his defenses of either her person or the kings. She had arranged for the overhaul of the King’s Army, which would join them at Soldier’s Peak within the week, if all went well. 

Riordan had gone south, as he had said he would, slipping away in non-descript armor, wrapped in a brown cloak, to see what he could learn at Ostagar. 

Levi Dryden led them through the reformed halls of Soldier’s Peak which glimmered now with lamplight and shone with the light from fireplaces which burned by magic alone. Eideann stared in wonder, and Wynne just smiled and explained the First Enchanter had made a habit of keeping the Circle Tower as well lit. It made the air feel far better, and with the Veil mended, the Peak felt secure. 

Sophia Dryden’s office had been reclaimed. Levi had been using it for his stewardship, and she was happy to let him keep it. But he did give her the Warden-Commander’s chambers, a series of rooms backing off the office, which had been refurnished to match the Ferelden grey and black. That was good, having their own colors, their own uniform. It made it easier to distance herself from the Wardens that answered to Weisshaupt. 

She settled her pack on the bed there, taking a moment to herself, and then went around the corner to the tower where the barracks were located. Climbing the steps upward led the rows of bunks that were occupied by the different pillars of her army. But taking the steps downward there led to a corridor of guest rooms that Levi had reserved for her companions and himself. She did not gainsay that. After all, he was allowed every instance of courtesy. He had built the place up from nothing after all.

She found another of the entrances to the Deep Roads tunnel at the far end of the corridor behind a great metal door set with the seals of Orzammar, guarded by a pair of grim-faced dwarves, and smiled. King Bhelen himself could visit her there if she so chose, without ever losing his Stone Sense. 

She insisted Alistair remain with her. Every moment she had to spend with him she wanted now. He too seemed determined to avoid separation. So together they followed Levi again back through the keep to a small chamber off the corridor leading to the Archives, and there was a council table spread with maps.

There were three Dalish Keepers gathered at one end. Lanaya was there, of course, hair in braids wound at the base of her skull, big eyes soft and gentle. At her side was an elderly woman with hair like silver, who gave a bow of head to Eideann and introduced herself as Keeper Ilshae. And on the other side, eyes dark and cool, was Keeper Solan, whose black hair was braided long down his back. 

“We could not contact the other clans in time,” Lanaya explained quietly, “but we offer you all the Dalish Warriors of our three clans.” 

“You witness a rare event, Warden. The Dalish stand ready to defend Ferelden.” Eideann gave them her soldier’s bow, Alistair at her side following suit.

“We have rallied the human armies,” she told them softly. “When this is done, your assistance will not be forgotten. I introduce you to King Alistair of Ferelden.” She glanced to him, and he considered them all, then nodded.

“When the Blight is ended, I shall see the Dalish are given recompense for all you have done for us, I swear it.” The Keepers exchanged glances, wary of promises, and then Lanaya nodded.

“We can trust these Shemlen,” she told the other Keepers in her gentle voice. “They helped to save us in the Brecilian Forests. If they are willing to grant us land, we can believe they will do so.” Eideann nodded.

“Three clans for the Vir Tanadhal,” Keeper Soran mused, his voice stern and calm. “Vir Assan, the Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver. Vir Bor’assan, the Way of the Bow: bend but never break. Vir Adahlen, the Way of the Forest.”

“Together,” Lanaya finished quietly, “we are stronger than the one. We stand with you, Warden-Commander. Let us know where you need us, and we shall fight.” Eideann thanked them quietly, and then considered the others. 

Knight-Commander Greagoir stood not far from the First Enchanter Irving, who was considering the maps spread on the table. General Fellhammer, set to lead the armies of the dwarves, was motioning to the Korcari Wilds.

Eideann came to join them, piercing the map on the wooden table with Duncan’s Dagger over Ostagar.

“That is where the horde last faced the forces of men, several months ago,” she said, and they all gathered to see the charts. With a stick of charcoal, she marked the flashpoints where the Blight had already ravaged the land. “Here, and here, we have significant losses. Lothering has been destroyed, and much of West Hills has fallen. We are looking at a spread northward.” She slipped the map over a moment, revealing a different one, sketched large from the handdrawn maps she made during their trip to the Anvil of the Void using the maps that she had gotten from Harrowmont. This was on thin paper, delicate. She lay them side by side, transferring points to the map of Ferelden as she brought them up. “Our last sighting of the Archdemon itself was here, in the Dead Trenches, not far from Ostagar. We crippled the darkspawn there, and reclaimed the city of Bownammar. The Darkspawn were marching in a crevasse far below, however, and we do not know where that crevasse lets out. She drew a mark through the map, showing the general area. It either comes out here, near Redcliffe, or it comes out further into the Brecilian Forest close to Gwaren.” She sketched a few more points on the map. “Here we are, at Soldier’s Peak, and we know that there are major dwarven settlements being held under the surface at Ortan Thaig, Cadash Thaig, and Caridin’s Cross.” She moved to put an ‘x’ through Crestwood. “Crestwood has been flooded the Deep Roads exits there sealed off, meaning that for the time being, everything this side of the North Road is safe from incursion for the time being. That means that all the lands north of Waking Sea are held at this line, gentlemen.” She looked up. “Everything in the Bannorn is at the mercy of the whims of the darkspawn.” She drew a line through the map just north of Lothering. “The Archdemon cannot travel the Deep Roads north of this point. The tunnels there are too small, and so it must go around.” That led to a fairly clear picture. “It will either come through the Deep Roads this direction following the River Drakon, or it will move west towards the Frostbacks and Orlais. If it hits the Orlesian border, the Wardens of Orlais are already armed and prepared for battle. But if it goes the other way…” 

She paused to let it sink in, let them follow the map symbols and the arrows she had drawn. 

“Denerim…” She nodded. Alistair leaned alongside her, face severe.

“One thing we do know,” he added quietly, “the Archdemon can command the force from far behind the lines, meaning the Bannorn is still threatened by any that break the surface.” He looked to the dwarves who were following the maps grimly. “These tunnels through to Bownammar are mostly clear. If you can send word to Bhelen to move the line southward and close off those tunnels that might prove access routes for darkspawn raids northward, it will reclaim many of the lost Thaigs, and it will hold the darkspawn at bay.” General Fellhammer sighed, then nodded, motioning to his Second who left the room then.

“The Dalish are archers, and we need them for the battle with the Archdemon,” Eideann said, fixing them with a look. “We will have some Ferelden longbowmen, but many were lost at Ostagar during the battle there. A Blight does not end until the Archdemon lies dead and the darkspawn are scattered and leaderless.” She grimaced. “It’s a dragon. It flies. And we will have to bring it down.” She met Lanaya’s gaze, since she was the most forthcoming. “Dalish archers are the best in the world. If anyone can bring that thing down, they can.” 

The Keeper nodded, and Eideann considered the map again. 

“But most importantly is the fact that we will be battling an entire horde at the same time. Someone has to hold them at bay.”

“A contingent of dwarven infantry will be remaining on the surface,” General Fellhammer said grimly. “Including a Legion of the Dead commanded by Captain Kardol, whom I believe you have met. King Bhelen has been conscripting into the ranks ever since his coronation, and all of Orzammar is armed for battle, Warden. You’ll need some veterans here on the surface.” In truth their field was twice the size, with the Deep Roads to consider. She was glad of the offer, and nodded, glancing to Greagoir and Irving. 

“The rest will be in the hands of the King’s Army, which assembles at Redcliffe and will join us shortly. But if there is anything we know about darkspawn, it’s that they swarm.” She considered them both, then looked to Greagoir. “One of the most useful things we have been able to do is use Alistair’s Templar abilities to quell the magic of darkspawn emissaries. Templars have the ability to halt that magic.”

“Smiting works particularly well,” Alistair said, standing up and crossing his arms. “And I assure you, those darkspawn have no idea what to do in the face of those abilities. If we can insure their mages go down, that leaves only warriors, and those die by sword easily enough. Or,” he looked to Irving, “by spell.” 

“Area of effect attacks can bring down large numbers at once, and we will want to take charge of any potential choke points we find to hammer them with all the magic we have. But if you have any healers, we will need their skills as well.”

“We have some healers of our own, Grey Wardens,” Keeper Ishae said quietly, her voice tender. “The Dalish Vir Atish’an is the Way of Peace, the skills of the healers who dedicate themselves to Sylaise.” Eideann looked up and nodded.

“Then that will be our infirmary force. We need to protect as many as we can.” 

“We heard rumors from those who made it out of Ostagar that there were different darkspawn now, new ones,” Knight-Commander Greagoir said, eyeing the map with composure. “Are these rumors true?” Eideann raised her chin.

“There are four we have found so far that may attack. The first are the genlocks, the small ones. They’re quick and pack a punch, but they’re the most common. The others we will see a lot of are hurlocks, which are larger, and normally in heavier armor. These make up the bulk of the infantry forces, but genlocks and hurlocks are where you’ll find the darkspawn mages, and all of them use blood magic.” She grimaced, trying to avoid telling them where they all came from. She had a feeling the dwarves already knew, but General Fellhammer said nothing. “The others are rarer, and each very dangerous. The first are the shrieks. They appear from nowhere. They have sharp talons and when they make noise, it hurts. They debilitate. It’s these that will probably come for the mages or the ranged archers, meaning we will want defensive troops stationed in the event of these attacks, and I will want every mage on that field to be wearing at least the minimum of protective armor. And the last are the ogres, which are massive. We have fought a few of them, and luckily they are rare, but if you see those, get out of the way. Unless you can bring it down together, do not confront them without need. Ogres will bring down gates alone, and these will be found in their siege forces. Where necessary, we’ve had luck with cold spells in the past, and they’re weak at the eyes. If you fell one, stab it through the head. Sometimes they get back up.” She grimaced. “Aside from the darkspawn, there may be Blight-tainted creatures…wolves, bears, or spiders depending on where they come up. Kill them, and fast, and expect them to die fighting.”

“One more thing,” Alistair said quietly, and they turned to look at him. “The darkspawn will take prisoners, those corrupted by the Blight. We have no cure at this time for those who do get corrupted, and should it happen, it would be a kinder mercy to end their suffering. Blight blood burns, and it is like fire in your veins. And those that survive are twisted beyond recognition. They wander into the Deep Roads by any means they can find and turn to serving the darkspawn as ghouls. It is no kindness to keep them alive if they have been infected.” His look was cold, and Eideann considered him, then nodded. 

“There is one other Grey Warden in Ferelden,” she explained softly, pointing to Ostagar. “He has gone south to the source of the Blight where the horde first broke the surface to see what he can learn. When he brings us news, then we will know to march, but we must be prepared to do so the moment he arrives, so keep your camps ready and your forces stocked. If he does not return, we will set our sights on Denerim, the way the Archdemon fled in the Deep Roads. If it goes instead towards Orlais…” She motioned to the Frostbacks, “there are other Wardens there that can stop him, backed by Orlesian Chevaliers en masse. Empress Celene’s forces will not be idle.” She looked up then, eyes cold.

“Any questions?” There was silence for a moment, and then Irving looked up.

“Who will pay for outfitting of the mages?” he asked. Eideann glanced to Levi Dryden.

“How many uniforms are in the armory?” she asked. He considered a moment, then glanced to the mages.

“I can find out. How many do we need?” 

“I have eight, if you count Wynne and myself,” Irving said quietly.

“And we three, plus the Soran’s First, but we have our own armor,” Keeper Ishae said. Eideann knew Lanaya had not had time to get a First, not yet. But it appeared Ishae had no First either. 

“Twelve mages then.” She did not factor in Morrigan, who she was certain would be just fine with the leathers she wore. Morrigan would not accept her help anyway. “Levi, find out if there are eight silverite tabards,” she said quietly, “and the studded brigandine if it’s there. That should fit everyone, and it can go over whatever other armor they have.” Levi nodded. Eideann looked to Irving and the Keepers. “We can loan your people some of what we have here. That saves trying to make more, and nothing can defend against darkspawn better than Warden gear.” 

“Thank you, Warden-Commander,” Irving said, and Eideann nodded.

“Send for your people, First Enchanter. The sooner we have you outfitted the better.” He nodded and then crossed to the door. The Keepers took their leave as well, speaking quietly. Only General Fellhammer and a handful of his Captains stood by. “Yes, General?”

“Your maps, of the Deep Roads,” General Fellhammer said after a moment. “How do you know where they correspond to on the surface? How do you know all these old tunnels? No one’s charted this in years.” Eideann set her hand on the map of the Deep Roads and drew a breath.

“We drew it ourselves when we were down in the Deep Roads seeking the Anvil of the Void. The rest was a matter of lining up geography, that’s all. Sights, sounds, smells. I know where Cadash Thaig is, and Gwaren. The rest was orientation. We built from the maps Harrowmont’s people gave us when we went into the Deep Roads, that’s all.” She glanced to Alistair. “We left a copy with the Shaperate in Orzammar, but if you require more to be made…”

“If you would be so kind. These maps could save hundreds of our scouts.” Eideann nodded, gathering the map from the table and rolling it up.

“I shall see it done,” she said simply, and gave him another salute. “Your assistance here is greatly appreciated, General. I will see to it you have several copies for your Captains before tomorrow at sunset.” 

General Fellhammer, satisfied with that, nodded, and then turned away. Levi Dryden excused himself, pulling forth the key for the storerooms, and disappeared to outfit the mages. Eideann was left with Alistair considering the map before her.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair exclaimed quietly, shaking his head. “Seeing it on paper…it really could hit Denerim couldn’t it?” Eideann set her jaw, pulling Duncan’s dagger from its spot on Ostagar and sheathing it at the small of her back again. 

“How intelligent would it have to be to know Denerim was a prime target and choose to go that way?” 

“Realistically?” Alistair grimaced. “The darkspawn learn what they can from ghouls, which hear the song and become part of the hive mind. That’s why it’s dangerous when Wardens go missing, especially high-ranking Wardens with too many secrets.” He sighed. “I would say the chances are very good that it will aim for Denerim.” He considered the markings on the map where the Deep Roads Thaigs were sketched in charcoal. “Even if they cannot break this line at the North Road now, they will soon enough if Denerim falls. And if we can sense the Archdemon, it can sense us, as we learned in the Brecilian Forest, meaning it can definitely sense the Orlesian Wardens along the border.” He grimaced. “Denerim would be the most ideal target for now. And once that is done, it could follow unmapped Deep Roads across the Waking Sea and strike the Free Marches.” Eideann grimaced, and then nodded. 

“Then we must warn them,” she said, eyes sharp. “I will send a runner to the nearest port with word to the Grey Keep at Starkhaven. If nothing else they can prepare in case we are too late.”

“I don’t want to think about failing,” Alistair told her, shaking his head.

“Neither do I.” She grimaced, and he looked her over, considering, before finally drawing a breath.

“Eideann, if you’re going up against an Archdemon, you can’t do it in scout armor.” She looked up, blinking, and then sighed.

“You’re right.”

“There was better stuff in the Armory last time we were here. Warden-Commander gear, not just the regular infantry.” She considered him, long and hard, and then pursed her lips.

“I’m only wearing it if you will,” she insisted, and so he sighed and nodded.

“Fine,” he told her, pushing the maps away a little. “Let’s go and see what they have there together.” 

***

The Warden-Commander armor was a darker gray silk tabard over the usual black studded brigandine. The usual breastplate was longer, extending to the hips in different panels. It was heavy armor, certainly, but actually felt more lightweight than the other type. The metals were a blended alloy of silverite and some darker metal which was light but strong. Eideann tested it out a little, checking she could move as she needed to, and was delighted to find she could. 

It gave them a little distinction, the different armor, made them look more imposing and more in charge. Especially with the mages wearing borrowed tabards for their own protection over their silk, satin, and velvet enchanted robes. 

But there was another change as well, now. Alistair had settled on Duncan’s Sword long ago, but until then she had kept her dual Warden blades. That had to change now. She had reclaimed Highever, and the Cousland Blade was silverite as much as the Warden ones. And then there was Maric’s sword, glittering with runes as the Cousland one did, silver and gold paired, one silverite, one dragonbone, and both representing Ferelden. Duty and Justice united as one. 

She could not carry the Warden blades anymore. Not after the Landsmeet. So she strapped on her own swords, one for the Kingdom and one for the Past, and then fastened her cloak over the top for warmth against the chill.

“Warden-Commander!” The bright voice behind her made her start, and she turned to see the red-haired dwarf girl who had been so insistent on joining the Circle of Magi when they were in Orzammar. Apparently she had made it, so Eideann smiled, greeting her, and Alistair joined her. “Warden-Commander, oh it’s so wonderful to see you here! I did what you said, and now I’m studying in the Circle!” 

“I’m glad to see you’re safe. Are you enjoying it?” Alistair said. She grinned.

“Oh _yes_! You wouldn’t believe the how lyrium potency is affected by - anyway, I had something important to say.” She motioned for them to follow, overly excited at something. “Come with me. Sandal and I have been working on something specially for you. We think it should help in the upcoming fight, and you need all the help you can get, yes?” Eideann and Alistair exchanged looks, then followed her up from the armory.

Dagna led them to the forge outside the keep, and Eideann was glad of her cloak as the cold winds of spring swept over them. Even with the snows breaking, Soldier’s Peak stayed cold, too high up to escape the drafts that swept the mountain peaks. And the Coastlands were never known for warmth. When it got too warm to snow, it rained. Soldier’s Peak definitely felt the brunt of that.

The forge was run by Levi’s brother, Mikhael, who had studied with dwarven smiths from Orzammar to learn the best of his craft. He walked around them, musing over the new armor, while Dagna motioned her to a table where she had all manner of equipment set out. And there beside it was Sandal, who looked up at them with a wide smile and grinned.

“Enchantment!”

“Ah! Warden-Commander! When me and my boy heard you were gathering here, we thought, what place would be safer than the Warden’s fortress?” Eideann smiled.

“Hello Bodahn,” she said warmly, then nodded to Sandal as well who just stared and held something out. She reached and took it, turning it over in her hands. Alistair gave a low whistle.

“Look at the quality of _that_ ,” he murmured, staring at the rune in her hands. “It’s…flawless.”

“Made it ourselves,” Dagna said with a grin. “Infused with pure molten lyrium. Sandal’s got a gift for it, and I worked out a new way to carve so the runes are more durable, can carry the potency further.” Eideann passed it to her carefully, shaking her head in wonder.

“It’s incredible. You just…did this…in a few weeks?”

“Well, we made a few worse copies, but they were good enough to give to some of the soldiers. General Fellhammer and Knight-Commander Greagoir have given us a massive store of lyrium to outfit the entire army if we can, or at the very least the front-line infantry. But this…” she held up the rune, “this one is special. We made a dozen of these, and they’re all for you and yours, Warden-Commander.” She grinned and set it on the table with the pile of others. “We did some research into how the Legion of the Dead members who were in Orzammar described the Archdemon. They said dragon, so we shopped around. A guy called Wade out of Denerim specializes in dragonscale and dragonbone goods, and was intrigued enough by the prospect to send us some raw material. And then since you have to battle through the horde to even reach them, we threw in some heavy duty silverite to pack an extra punch. You’ll be a vanguard of darkspawn murdering, dragon-slaying machines, Warden.” She grinned, showcasing her work, and Eideann gave a laugh.

“Dagna, this is amazing. Sandal…thank you.” Dagna exchanged a look with Sandal who grinned.

“Enchantment!” 

“He’s all ready to fix up your crew. You just have to give him an hour to do the work, and you’ll be super Archdemon hunters,” Dagna said. “Whatever weapons you’re taking into the final battle, those are the ones we should upgrade.” Alistair immediately drew Duncan’s sword and laid it out, look firm.

“There. That one.” Dagna looked delighted. Eideann slowly drew the Duty and King’s Justice and laid them out on the table too.

“Be careful with them,” she said quietly.

“Dragonbone?!” Dagna exclaimed. “By the ancestors…Warden, this is a _nice_ sword…” Still a smith then under it all. Eideann smiled.

“It means a lot to a lot of people,” she said quietly. 

“We will take care of it as if they were the King and Queens own weapons,” Bodahn said, with no hint of irony. Eideann just laughed and nodded.

“We have a few more things to take care of. Send a messenger to the office to the Steward’s office when they’re done and we shall come to collect them.” Dagna threw a salute, brilliant grin on her face, and Eideann swallowed, giving the blades one last look before turning away and crossing the snowy square to the keep again.

She greeted a few of the soldiers on her way through the keep, and Alistair went to go speak with the others about the runes. Eideann crossed to the study that Levi had been using as an office and dug about the in the desk a moment until she found some paper. And then she settled down with a quill and ink. 

The first was a letter to Jader, since she knew there was a Warden outpost there that could at least act, even if it was not the primary headquarters in Orlais. She told them of their suspicions regarding the Archdemon and the potential it might head west.

The second was to the Grey Keep in Starkhaven, news for the Marcher Wardens should their final stand fail and their lines break.

She signed the letters with every title she had. Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Teyrna of Highever, and Queen-Regent. The last she could use since the Landsmeet had voted for her. Anora had been Queen-Consort, but she had the power to act. 

She signed her name with a flourish, pausing a moment on the last name before finally settling on the one she would use in the future. Best to start wielding the power of it now.

_Eideann Cousland-Theirin._

And then she rolled the two letters up, melted a blob of sealing wax over a candle, and then smeared it across the papers to hold the letters closed. And then she paused a moment, gazing at the blank wax, before reaching for Duncan’s dagger at her back. She flipped it to its side and pressed the pommel into the silver wax, leaving the imprint of the Grey Warden griffon on each seals. 

“My Lady.” She looked up and caught sight of Levi Dryden standing in the doorway. She rose, letter in hand, and held it forward.

“This _must_ reach Jader,” she said quietly, handing him the first one. Then she considered the second. “And this is for the Grey Keep in Starkhaven.” Levi took them, eyes concerned.

“Backup plans, Milady?” he asked, and she nodded, sighing.

“Just in case,” she said, smiling wanly. And he nodded.

“I’ll make sure they are sent.” She looked about, then smiled.

“Thank you, Levi, for all you’ve done here.” He just smiled, shaking his head.

“No need to thank me, Warden. You did my family and me a great service coming here and cleaning the place out. You gave us the truth, and a way forward.” He looked to her with sincerity in his green eyes. “You gave us a chance to prove ourselves. And we’re grateful to you for that.” 

“When this is done…” He held up his hand.

“No rewards, Warden. Just let us stay here at the Peak. We’ll serve as your Stewards. That’s an honor enough.” Eideann considered him, and then nodded, smiling.

“The honor would be mine,” she said quietly. He smiled, then gave her a small bow.

“You’re majesty,” he murmured, and then held up the letters, straightening his spine. “I shall go and see these sent.” He backed out, then turned on his heel and was gone. She sighed, considering the door, fingers resting lightly on the desk to her left. And then she looked to Angus, who was standing beside her, confusion on his face.

“Ah, Angus,” she sighed, and then crouched to take his head in her hands and scratch his ears. “At least you’ll treat me normally, yes?” He just gave a sloppy grin, drooling on her hand and she sighed, making a disgusted face, and shaking her head. “Yes…that’s precisely what I meant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dalish Clans:  
> In game, it appears like the only Dalish that help out are those from Zathrien's clan, but this felt really insignificant for all the work that was done, and there are many Dalish in Ferelden (especially as it really is not far from the Dales, all said and done). There was the Sabrae Clan (Merrill and Co) which have gone ahead to the Free Marches and Kirkwall now. There was Zathrien's Clan, now headed by Lanaya. The other two mentioned here are Keeper Soran's clan and Keeper Ishae's clan. Only one of them currently has a First. Neither of them have clan names that I am aware of (I looked).
> 
> Lanaya was First until very recently and probably does not have a First of her own yet because of this. Keeper Ishae's clan is actually currently crippled from attacks in Amaranthine. Her First ran away with a few of their warriors to take vengeance on humans that had attacked their clan. It's actually Velanna, who we meet in Awakenings, so it is not unreasonable to assume that Velanna's old clan is in the area. Keeper Soran is probably in the area too, though I don't know particularly where, and I say this because we see one of his clan during Witch Hunt (Ariane) who we meet in the Korcari Wilds. With the Frostbacks, the Korcari Wilds, the Brecilian Forest, the Wending Wood, the Hinterlands, the Dales, and the Arbor Wilds all in this area, it stands to reason that many Dalish tribes might be frequenting the area. 
> 
> As for why there's only the three, it seemed like a nice round number, and also the Vir Tanadhal is split into three, so it felt like a fitting choice.
> 
> Dagna and Runes:  
> In Origins, you can only find/buy runes, there is no runecrafting. However, in Awakenings, this skill has somehow been "rediscovered" or "shared". I just took it a step further and assumed that those really good runes you can buy were made some time ago, and that current runecrafting is of poor quality, until Dagna and Sandal get their hands on some lyrium and runestones and work their magic as they do. It's just a quirk I like, but we're working on the assumption that the brilliant arcanist and the enchanting savant rediscovered the lost art of runecrafting really awesome runes, and shared that knowledge to the extent it can actually become a real profession by DA:A and DA:II. Also, Dagna is awesome, so...yay Dagna. :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eideann and Wynne discuss death; the King's Army arrives at Soldier's Peak; Riordan brings bad news; Eideann makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence (mild), sex (not explicit)

The books in the Soldier’s Peak archives were devoted to all manner of Grey Warden histories, spells, and secrets. Levi Dryden had left them mostly alone, guarded by two of his nephews so people would not go rummaging about in Grey Warden secrets. But they were not off limits to her. There were books on all manner of things there, the sort of things she had asked Morrigan to research when she had sent her to the Shaperate. Eideann had more than enough to occupy her with the preparations for the battle that could happen at any time, and yet with so many others seeing to different aspects of those preparations, she found herself wandering a little. Mostly, she was involved in morale, showing her face and looking competent. And since Alistair was the King and should be doing that as well, even that was a shared duty while they waited for some news from the south. 

So she went through the books, fragile pages that told her about the Deep Roads, the Old Gods. Some where studies on dragons, others the lives of Grey Wardens who had had great impact. She found a copy of the Joining Ritual, a listing of various Warden bases that was three hundred years old and probably needed some updating, and maps of the Deep Roads so delicate touching them could send them to pieces. She found charts that showed the projected locations of the other Old Gods, still buried in the ground, and some strange inscriptions that she could not read encrypted with a cipher she did not know. She found theoretical works about the origins of darkspawn and the connection to the Fade, and she found copies of Dissonant Verses of the Chant of Light. These she considered thoughtfully, since the other documents just made her more concerned. Even the Joining Ritual gave her pause. She had no Archdemon blood to add to the Joining Chalice, so she could not induct other Grey Wardens anyway, and the rest…well the rest showed her how much work was left to be done. But in the pages of theoretical Fade origins, she found all number of fascinating things. Observations she had made herself, like the fleshy substances that they had found in Bownammar looking very much like the fleshy substances they had found within the Circle Tower, were confirmed in the crisp pages. 

It was easy to be distracted there. As soldiers came and went, she sat at the table in the Archive, ignorant of them all, and slowly buried herself in the ancient knowledge of the Wardens. Once or twice, Alistair would come to read a little over her shoulder and muse over some theory or other, but for the most part it was Wynne who kept her company. 

Wynne’s primary interest was trying to find a way to protect their troops from the Blight during the battle. As a Spirit Healer, she found the implications of the theories linking the darkspawn and the Fade to be fascinating, and well worth study. Eideann was hesitant to let her near all the books, but she certainly was willing to share things if she found something that proved interesting or potentially useful.

Several evenings they took their meals in the Archives, closeted together debating the merits of specific theories. Eideann realized the value of having a mage Warden then, but since she could not do the Joining at the time, and since Wynne was already so old and sustained by the Spirit of Faith within her, it was not a plausible idea anyway.

Eideann had spent most of the afternoon in such seclusion with Wynne that particular day when news of an army riding from the North Road reached her by Dalish scout. The Dalish were faster, more nimble on such terrain, and the army was moving slowly. There was news they would arrive on the morrow. So they were about ready to move at last, Riordan or no, and that meant she had to be ready. 

But it left her a little unsettled. So she sat with Wynne that night before the fire in the Great Hall, and peered into the dancing flames.

“You look troubled,” Wynne finally said, some strong vintage from Val Chevin cupped in her hands, unearthed from the ancient cellars. Eideann sighed and looked to her, considering the mage a moment.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever understand, and I don’t like fighting things I don’t comprehend,” she admitted.

“Ah.” For a moment there was just silence, and then Eideann set aside her cup, untouched, and bit her lip.

“Wynne,” she asked quietly. “Why did that spirit choose to help you?” She was a newcomer to the theories of the Fade. The Circle itself was hazy on the details about spirits and demons, what was good and what was bad. But if there was a connection to the darkspawn, she herself was now tangled in that knot, and Wynne was the only one she knew who could really claim such intimate contact with spirits. The elderly mage just sighed, settling back into the chair, and took a sip of her wine before considering the woman beside her.

“I have always had an affinity for the spirits of the Fade,” she finally said quietly. “As a child I never feared my dreams, because I knew they were there.” Eideann thought of her Warden dreams, haunted by an Archdemon that could sense her. She thought of the way lyrium sang, and the way the Blight sang, and grimaced. She could feel that hum in her blood, vibrating through her entire body, hot and noxious together leaving her always constantly cold. 

“I’ve never experienced that before,” she said quietly. Dreams were scary places. Even as a child she had run to Fergus with her nightmares, or her Mother. Wynne nodded.

“I’ve always been able to feel the spirits,” she explained.”I began to notice everytime I was in the Fade, I was being watched.” Eideann’s mind flittered back to Urthemiel again and she gave an involuntary shudder.

“Creepy,” she murmured. Wynne gave a soft smile.

“Sometimes I would see it,” she said gently. “Most times I would just feel its presence. I think it is a Spirit of Faith.” She sighed, looking into her cup. “It always felt like the same…entity. This one spirit was curious about me and was…guarding me, for want of a better word.”

“You mean it protected you?” Eideann asked, finally looking up. Wynne nodded.

“There were times when I was in the Fade that it seemed to stretch forth and shield me. And I think it gave me strength in my most terrible battles, Ostagar being one of them.” 

“And also in your fight with Petra’s demon,” Eideann said, filling in the unspoken, the moment Wynne had ‘died’. 

“I don’t know why I was chosen,” Wynne added thoughtfully. “I like to think I’ve been given a rare chance and I’m going to make the best of the time so generously give to me.” Eideann nodded, looking back into the flames and leaning forward, elbows on her knees. 

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, “you think travelling with us is worthy of your time.” Wynne gave a soft laugh.

“You had better listen to me,” she warned, “because I swear if I should fall before the end and you don’t seem to be doing things properly, I’ll get up again to give you a good finger-wagging.” Eideann barked a laugh, looking up and shaking her head.

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” she replied quietly. Wynne smiled at her, considering her with wise old eyes, and then sighed.

“You know,” she said, “I think you’ll be alright. Even without my help. Ah child…your concern is heartwarming, but death comes to everyone, and it is not something to fear.” Eideann’s smile slipped and she looked back to the flames, the firelight dancing in the hearth from First Enchanter Irving’s magic. 

“I don’t fear death,” Eideann said quietly. “It’s the dying that scares me.” What happened after would be of no consequence. She thought of the Deep Roads, of the desperate desire to die beneath the stars, and swallowed, hard. 

“People fear not death,” Wynne said softly, “but having life taken from them. Many waste the life given to them, occupying themselves with things that do not matter. When the end comes, they say they did not have time enough to spend with loved ones, to fulfil dreams, to go on adventures they only ever talked about. But why should you fear death if you are happy with the life you have led? If you can look back on everything and say: yes, I am content. It is enough?” Eideann nodded, and then slowly pushed herself up from her chair, her eyes sliding to Wynne.

“One day the Blight will Call me, and I will have to go. Maybe sometime soon, or maybe many decades from now. I hope,” she had never admitted it out loud before, “that when that time comes, there is enough of me left to go to my death with a sword in my hand and the part of myself that remains.” Wynne gave her a sad look, and Eideann turned away then, climbing the steps towards the Steward’s Office and the chambers she shared with Alistair, goblet of wine still in her hand. 

She was not thirsty, nor hungry. The smell of the Waking Sea salmon made her mouth water before, but today it made her taste ash in her mouth instead. She managed a small crust of bread someone had left on a platter in the first of the Warden-Commander’s chambers, and then retired early, hiding away inside the bedroom and burying herself under the covers to sleep. She did not feel Alistair come to bed, but when she woke he was there beside her. 

There were shouts beyond the walls, carrying from the courtyard, and she realized that the King’s Army had been sighted on the road. Today was the day of decisions, then. The pressure made her a bit dizzy. She just wanted to hide in the corner and be sick at the very thought. But she was a Cousland, she so forced all that away, and rose to strap on her Warden-Commander armor and her reclaimed blades.

Dagna’s work was impeccable. Where Duty and King’s Justice had once glittered with runes laid long ago, now they veritably shone. The silverite runes had been inlaid with care only the blades, and the dragon-slaying runes had been set into the handles, warm beneath her hands, a twisting spiral of lyrium lacing that glowed at her touch and made her mind focus a little.

That dwarf girl was some sort of genius, and Sandal…well, enough said.

She found that the courtyard was a hive of activity. Levi Dryden was awake and up, and a few of her men were out and about, but it was still early enough that dawn’s deep shadows cut swathes across the snows of the courtyard and the portcullis groaning open before them was too loud for her. 

The army she had come to greet was headed by a number of familiar faces. Arl Eamon was there, Bann Teagan, Alfstanna with her longbowmen in the leathers of Waking Sea, Arl Bryland in full Red Steel from South Reach. 

And all of them looked exhausted. Their armor was bloodied, their faces haggard, and the troops they led were tired and footsore. They crossed to her where she stood with Levi, watching them with sharp Cousland eyes, and Arl Eamon gave her a grim look.

“The Bannorn is flooded with darkspawn. The journey northward was not without losses, Commander,” he told her quietly. Eideann considered the troops, filing up through the tunnel, eyes grim and weary, and nodded bleakly. 

“Then we don’t have much time,” she finally said. “Follow me. Levi, see to it the forces are fed and given a place to rest. They’ve had a long journey.” 

She led the Banns and the Captains that followed to the side door that went to the tower where Avernus had once performed his mad experiments. The ground floor off the courtyard was a large hall, meant for announcements or meetings or some such. They had not needed the space until now, but given the weariness of the group and the news from the south, she decided the previous war room with its maps and lack of chairs was not for the best. They filed in, gathering about a giant firepit in the center, where half of them settled to warm themselves and the others sank into seats on benches to watch her. Alfstanna greeted her with a cousinly hug, and Arl Eamon grimaced.

The door that led up into the Keep opened, and Alistair emerged, eyes dark, General Fellhammer, the Dalish Keepers, and Greagoir and Irving in tow. He gave her a nod, and crossed to join them, and they all gathered before the fireplace and warmth. 

“They caught us over West Hill,” Teagan explained after a moment, eyes dark. “They’re entrenched there for the moment, but we don’t suspect that is the bulk of the horde. Too disorganized.”

“Dwarven incursions into the Thaigs in the area have forced them to the surface, it seems,” Alistair said coolly. “They’re cut off from the horde for the time being, meaning that at least the horde is not to the west of our current position.”

Eideann quickly walked them through what they knew, the likelihood of the horde marching westward in the Deep Roads or eastward to Denerim, and their current strength and tactical ability. 

“We can supplement your bowmen,” Alfstanna told the Dalish when she had heard the plan. Eideann propped a boot on one of the benches and grimaced.

“We still have no news of the Archdemon, and that must be our target. We cannot face the horde without the Archdemon at its head. The horde will not break until the Archdemon does.” Alistair rolled his shoulders.

“We’ve sensed nothing so far. The last we saw of it was in Bownammar, and we could not reach it then to kill it, or we would have. If it is biding its time, I cannot think where, but we are fairly certain of one thing. The horde will take the eastern road.” There was a ripple of unease across their allies, and he met Eideann’s eyes across the hall. “The darkspawn have a hive mind of sorts. Wardens have some ability to tap into this. It is how we sense the darkspawn. When the Archdemon is there, we will feel it. We don’t. But the hive mind also works in reverse. Those that become infected and end up as ghouls become part of that hive mind. Their knowledge of the world is added to the horde’s knowledge of the world. The Archdemon knows that the border of Orlais is guarded by a force of Grey Wardens two hundred strong. It also knows that Denerim is the most populated city in Ferelden, and the seat of Fereldan power, and that it will be guarded by two Wardens alone. There is a reason it has not spread to other kingdoms yet.” He looked somber. “We don’t have the military capacity to throw ourselves at the horde until the Archdemon shows itself.” 

“From what we can tell,” Eideann added, “it was subterranean at Ostagar. It never took the field, because it never had to.” 

“But it was close,” Alistair assured them. “We knew it was close. It was there.” Eideann and Alistair fell silent then, and Arl Eamon gave a sigh, arms crossed, peering into the fire.

“Then we are at a stand-still until the Archdemon appears.” 

“Riordan has gone to track the horde,” Eideann said. “We hope he reaches us shortly. But if he is not here inside the next three days, we will march to Denerim and hold our line at the capital. Orlais must handle the west.” There were a few nods of agreement, and then she waved a hand. “Levi Dryden is my Steward here at Soldier’s Peak. He will see to your needs. You need only ask him or one of the other Drydens that run the place. We have a smith if arms or armor needs reparation, and runecrafters that are doing some amazing work preparing our forces. Please make use of them. Levi will see to it you are all put in quarters, though I apologize for the lack of luxury. Soldier’s Peak is a military fortress, not a palace.” 

Levi waved them along, until only Bann Teagan, Alistair, and Arl Eamon remained, grim-faced and tired. Teagan considered them a moment with quiet eyes. 

“How are supplies?” he asked them, and Alistair grimaced.

“Well enough. We’re fishing the Waking Sea to the north, and the Coastlands are good hunting grounds. And there’s nug, if you feel like rabbit-pig. We found a Deep Roads entrance beneath the Peak itself, which King Bhelen has established as a permanent crossroads and is keeping under heavy guard. We’ve got a direct line through to Orzammar at the moment, and we’re pushing that line south if we can. More darkspawn will surface as they’re forced from the tunnels, but they’re easier to kill on the surface. They only breed in the dark.” His look was cold. “Regardless, we’re well-stocked. Soldier’s Peak was apparently made to withstand a siege.

“Let us hope,” Eamon said, “it does not come to that.” 

“How bad were the attacks on the road?” Eideann said quietly. “How many did we lose?” 

“Almost a fifth of our forces,” Teagan admitted grimly. “Some in the fighting, the rest to Blight. We had to…we had to put them down before they turned.” He shook his head. “We don’t have the forces to withstand an entire horde for long. When it comes to that battle, we won’t last long. Hopefully just long enough to bring down the Archdemon.”

“Denerim is not undefended,” Eideann said quietly. “The Denerim guard remained behind at my insistence. They’re unruly and poorly trained, and I insisted the Colonel put them through some preparation. They can join or forces if need be.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, our maps of the Deep Roads under eastern Ferelden are sadly lacking at best. We – ”

There was a shudder, like the whole Peak was suddenly shaking, and Eideann cut short to look to Alistair. And then it happened again, and she gave a curse, turning on her heel to the door. 

“Commander!” someone called as she emerged into the courtyard, waving her over up the path. “Commander, this way! Quickly!” Eideann hurried up the path, Alistair beside her, Teagan and Arl Eamon in tow, after a dwarf who was beckoning her hurriedly, explaining as they ran. “We just got reports of a force moving up into the crossroads. The explosions are dwarven, in origin, though we didn’t expect them to pack such a punch!” 

“Explosives?” Eideann demanded angrily. “You’re blowing up my Peak?” 

“No! No, Commander! No!” the dwarf insisted. “The mining caste uses something of less intensity to blast lyrium veins, but this…bloody Glavornak brothers have been tinkering again, and they’re mad! They were told only to use them in emergencies!” 

“What is going on?!” Eideann yelled.

“’Spawn in the tunnels,” the dwarf explained as they reached the exterior entrance, the one that was not sealed by the Orzammar door. “The forces King Bhelen sent are holding for now, but you’d better get down there.” Eideann drew her swords and went in then without another word, shooting off another curse angrily. If those dwarves toppled her fortress now…

Dwarven explosives…Maker’s breath! 

The crossroads was a simple construction, a number of high-impact barricades and air filled with smoke from the explosives. The tunnel was small, too small for anything like the Archdemon, but packed with a number of armored dwarves. And there was one with a skull tattooed across his face, clad in the armor of the Legion of the Dead, who grinned at her with a deadly look as she joined them in the dim tunnels.

“Warden!” he called with a laugh. “Couldn’t get enough of our company?”

“Kardol,” she sighed, then looked down the tunnel. “What is going on?” 

“Darkspawn came up from the southern entrance. Suddenly hit out of nowhere. Too deep for you to sense, maybe?” He grimaced. “We lost Josca and Garun and one of the Ivos down that way, and then mad Dworkin set off his explosives and collapsed the tunnel. We think.”

“You think?” she hissed. But she was thankful at least she was speaking with someone who spoke sense now. 

“Haven’t been able to tell, to be honest. Damn fool nug-humper clogged up the tunnels. We’ll be breathing smoke for weeks.” 

“No we won’t,” Eideann spat angrily, then looked back to Alistair. “Go fetch a mage. Any mage.” He nodded and disappeared back up the tunnel.

He returned moments later with the First Enchanter himself, whose magic erupted and immediately turned everything down the corridor to ice. The force of it made her cold enough she had to huddle inside her fur-lined cloak, and then she watched as the dust particles, made heavy by their freezing, dropped to the floor until they were looking at a carpet of white. And then she cautiously stepped forward, frozen dust pebbles crunching under her feet, swords ready in her hand. 

The tunnel was not entirely collapsed, but it did seek deeper into the earth, and she was wary to go forward without light. The runes on her swords gave off some, but not enough to see by unless it really was that dark.

Worse, she could sense the darkspawn beyond, roiling in the depths, and her lips twisted in a grimace. She felt Alistair at her back and bit at her tongue a moment. 

“Too many, Eideann,” Alistair said shortly, and she nodded.

“But there’s something…” she took another step forward and there was a shriek that cut through the air about them. The talons raked across her arm and she gave a sharp cry before whirling about to face the Shriek and hacking its head off with a violence fed by rage alone. And then she whirled back to the tunnel and caught the next wave as it erupted up. 

She stood with Alistair in the small space left from the partial collapse, blades arcing like swords made of Andraste’s fire, and the darkspawn fell, one by one, until she could only sense them retreating back down the tunnel. She grimaced, still feeling something, and exchanged a glance with Alistair before he nodded.

“Maker, if this is what the Calling is like,” he grumbled, stepping over the bodies and further into the tunnel, shield ready, “I’ll kill myself first.” She silently agreed. 

The strange sensation of the Blight nearby was somewhere close. They crept along the tunnels, wary, but the main force that had attacked was absent now. In fact, the weird feeling was so dim, they almost missed it, would have, if not for the soft sound. 

“Alistair…” There, up ahead, was Riordan, clutching at his chest and grimacing in pain, covered head to toe in dust and dirt and filth from the Deep Roads. Eideann slid her blades home and immediately pulled his arm about her shoulders for support before hurrying back along the tunnel, Alistair guarding their backs. 

They emerged into the crossroads to the faces of concerned dwarves. Eideann took one look at them, then singled out Kardol.

“Seal it off,” she said darkly. “I don’t care how. Seal the damn thing off.” There would be time in the future to reopen the passages if they were ever safe, but the southern road was a danger now, with the darkspawn so close, and she was done risking the safety of her keep to let it stand open. There was a flicker of resignation, maybe some anger, and then Kardol moved past her, calling orders.

Eideann hauled Riordan up from the tunnels and into daylight where he gave a pained groan. She lowered him carefully to a seat on the snows and First Enchanter Irving dosed him with a healing spell almost immediately, apologizing for not having much skill with it. Riordan shook his head and bore it, teeth gritted, and Eideann turned to rise, until he caught her arm.

“Commander,” he said painfully. Eideann knew what the look in his eyes meant before he even said the words. “The horde is now but two days march from Denerim,” he said, hunched over his injured torso. Alistair grimaced, sheathing his sword at his back.

“What? Are we sure about that? If that is true…” Riordan shook his head.

“I ventured close enough to ‘listen in’ as it were. I am quite certain.” Eideann remembered Alistair saying that the older Grey Wardens could sometimes understand the whispers that spoke through the hive mind, and did not doubt him. His eyes were cold with truth. Eideann looked away.

“Then we march at once,” she said fiercely, going to rise. Riordan’s fingers tightened into a vice-like grip about her arm.

“There is, I’m afraid, one other piece of news that is of greater concern,” the Senior Warden said sharply, broken by a cry as Irving’s magic chilled him into healing. “The Archdemon has shown itself. The dragon is at the head of the Horde.”

***

“Maker preserve us…” Teagan’s voice was the only sound in the chamber over the crackling of the fire. “The death toll will be…staggering.”

“We can’t reach Denerim in two days, can we?” Alistair said quietly, and Eideann glanced to him. They had sent for Wynne who had done a much better job healing Riordan, who now sat before the fire, grim-faced and somber but doing much better. He was wearing the quilted silk tunic of one of the uniforms Levi Dryden had pulled from the armory. He shook his head and Alistair gritted his teeth. 

“We must begin a forced march to the capital immediately with what we have,” Eamon said darkly. “Denerim must be defended at all costs.” It was the largest population center in Ferelden. Without it, the entire country would fall to the Blight. And with the Archdemon at its head…

“I agree,” Eideann said grimly, looking at the assembled Generals of her established army. “But the Archdemon is what’s important.” Nothing else would stop the Blight than the destruction of Urthemiel. 

“And only the Grey Wardens can defeat the Archdemon,” Riordan said calmly, Highever’s lilt ringing from his tongue, accented into Orlesian by so many years away. “That is why we must go.” His eyes burned into hers in the firelight, and she nodded. Alistair crossed his arms.

“Then we march,” he said fiercely, “and hope the army we’ve collected here gives us the chance we need.” Eideann felt a flicker of strength at his determination and a ghost of a smile touched her lips for the barest instance. And then it faded away. “Arl Eamon, how long before the army can set out?” Eamon considered the briefest of moments.

“By daybreak,” he finally said. The King’s Army was haggard from a forced march northward already, battling darkspawn to reach them. The dwarven and elven forces were in better shape, excepting the minor incursion in the tunnels below, and the mages were outfitted. It was their infantry that needed to be able to hold the line, however. Eideann grimaced.

“Then let’s get them ready,” Alistair said grimly. “I won’t let all those people die without giving them a chance.” 

“We could leave now, without the army,” Eideann said quietly, but her entire body ached at the suggestion of pressing on alone again after so many months of doing so. She had not really thought the idea through, but her mind told her they had to do _something_.

“To reach the Archdemon, we need to break through the horde,” Riordan said, shaking his head, saving her from her own foolishness. “To do that, we need the army. I see no other way.”

“I will give the orders at once,” Eamon said, “and will notify you the moment we are ready to march.” 

“That would be appreciated,” Alistair said in obvious relief, but worry laced his features. He looked older now than when they had first met. No Revered Mother was sending him to harass mages anymore. No quick smiles and easy manner and slightly wary composure anymore. Or not now anyway. Perhaps…when this was done…

His amber gaze met hers, lit by the firelight, warm molten gold that sank deep into her soul, and she settled, unease pulled away, at the love in his eyes in that moment. No, he was there, even now. She sighed.

“Then if you and Alistair could meet me before you retire?” Riordan said softly, and Eideann glanced to him. There was a darkness in the Senior Warden’s gaze. “We have Grey Warden business to discuss.”

“I suggest we all get some rest while we can,” Eamon said quietly. “We will need it.” 

Preparations went into overdrive after that, and Levi Dryden began organizing the largest military effort since the rebellion. The tension that hung thick in the air was like a deep breath, drawn in and held, waiting to be released. The stables were working overtime to care for all the warhorses. Men gathered in all corners of her keep, prepping gear and writing letters to loved ones left back home in case they fell. 

Eideann walked between them all, seeing the fear in their eyes, hearing the whispered prayers to whatever gods each man believed in, and knowing that many of them would die on her orders and never be returning home.

Some of Arl Eamon’s retinue had begun to follow her about, men in bronze and burgundy, the colors of the Theirin House. To be honest, it took her awhile to realize they were following her and not just going the same way, but when she turned towards the courtyard again to speak with Mikhael Dryden and Dagna about last minute smithing, they turned with her. And she stopped in her tracks to consider them.

“What is this?” she asked, and the soldiers, three of them, exchanged looks.

“We are concerned that darkspawn assassins might be sent into the military encampment to harm you or the King,” one finally told her, and she blinked a moment, then looked away, then back. He hesitated under his official helmet. “No doubt you could defend yourself from such an attack, my Lady, but we would prefer you to rest easy for a few hours at least.” Eideann drew a breath, and then sighed.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “I suppose it might be possible for Shrieks to come after us. They have before.” She could not sense them until they made their presence known, and with the trouble below the Peak earlier that very day…She did not know how effective these guardsmen would be, but she admired their loyalty. She motioned for them to follow, determined to at least recognize them now, and spoke as they walked. “You have a perspective I do not. What do you think of all this?” 

“Many are uneasy about facing the great Horde,” a second soldier said after a moment. “We will be outnumbered it is said. But we have no choice. There are thousands of innocents in Denerim.”

“My own family is there,” the third said quietly. Eideann looked to him, forcing herself to be strong.

“We will save them,” she said simply, meeting his eyes. “Don’t worry about that.” His mouth twitched slightly and he gave a slight bow to hide the fear and worry. 

“Thank you, my Queen. You can’t imagine what a relief it is to hear you say that.” She could. She had said it because she knew. Those who followed needed the strength of those who led. 

“How do you feel about the coming battle?” she asked, glancing to the first soldier who had said they were there to guard her. He pursed his lips and then sighed.

“I’m not certain,” he admitted. “On one hand I yearn for the capital to be defended. There are so many lives at stake.” A lifelong guardsman apparently, she recognized that drive. “But it feels as if we are rushing to our doom.” He met her eyes, and she saw fear in old eyes. “Do you truly feel that we have a chance of winning?” She met his gaze, eyes hard, Cousland blue burning with the fires of determination. 

“We will win,” she told him, eyes hard. “We will win, because we must.” 

“I hope you are right,” the soldier said, bowing his head slightly. “I will pray for it.” 

“Andraste guide you,” she told him quietly, and he just gave a small nod. 

She finished her business in the courtyard quickly and then climbed the tower steps to the chamber where Riordan was resting. Alistair was waiting when she arrived, somber and quiet and nervous. He gave her a nod, his own guards at the door, since he had been tailed about the keep as well, and pushed up from the wall with a grim look.

“There you are,” he said. “Let’s go see what Riordan has to say.”

Wynne had given the Senior Warden another treatment, and he was even on his feet now, looking at a racked set of Warden armor Levi had laid out to replace his borrowed scalemail. Alistair closed the door behind them, giving them some privacy, and Riordan looked up with quiet eyes to consider the pair of them. 

“You’re both here. Good.” He left the armor on the rack and turned to them, jaw set. “You’re new to the Grey Wardens, and may not have been told how an Archdemon is slain. I need to know if that is so.” Eideann felt a ripple of…something, and closed her eyes a moment.

“You mean there’s more to it than just…say…chopping off its head?” Alistair asked. Eideann had long since learned to sense the fear in his voice. She put out a hand, touching his arm gently, and fixed Riordan with a look.

“So it is true. Duncan had not yet told you. I had simply assumed…” the Senior Warden said. He sighed. “Tell me, have you ever wondered _why_ Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the darkspawn?” Eideann felt that odd feeling that had rippled across her nerves settle now like lead in the pit of her stomach, and she clenched her teeth a moment.

“I assume,” she said slowly, words quiet, “that it has something to do with the taint in us.” From all the stories, whispered words, what she knew of the Joining, the Fade…

Part of her knew what he was going to say before Riordan spoke the words.

“That is exactly what it involves. The Archdemon may be slain as any other darkspawn, but should any other than a Grey Warden do the slaying, it will not be enough.” Riordan turned away, pacing, arms crossed. “The essence of the beast will pass through the taint to the nearest darkspawn and will be reborn anew in that body. The dragon is thus all but immortal. But if the Archdemon is slain by a Grey Warden, its essence travels into the Grey Warden instead.” Eideann turned away, arms crossed, bowing her head slightly.

“That doesn’t sound very healthy,” she murmured. She could feel Riordan’s eyes watching her.

“The darkspawn is an empty soulless vessel,” he said quietly, “but a Grey Warden is not. The essence of the Archdemon is destroyed, and so is the Grey Warden.” He let that hang in the air a moment, and Eideann laced her fingers together, setting them against her forehead and closing her eyes. 

“Meaning…”Alistair said, finally putting voice to thoughts, “the Grey Warden who kills the Archdemon _dies_?” 

“Yes,” Riordan confirmed for his sake. “Without the Archdemon, the Blight ends. It is the only way.” 

Eideann drew a breath, letting her hands fall to her sides, and she stared at the stone of the wall a moment, feeling herself shaking a little. Her mind went to Ferelden, quiet and ever-present, the land that she and Alistair would rule.

Alistair had left Anora alive. If he died, the civil war would tear Ferelden apart. Politics were not his strength, but there was time yet for him to learn, and his heart made the choices he had to, and made them well. Eamon was there, and could teach him. The throne would not waver from Maric’s line now. There was hope still there. 

If she let him do it, if she let him give up his life to save them all, the results would destroy Ferelden. Her authority to rule came from him, came from that bloodline that tied them to Calenhad the Silver Knight. 

But he was the heir to Highever now too, King of Ferelden for all intents and purposes, and she had served her purpose if need be. 

No, it really came down to only one choice. Riordan or her.

“I will take that final blow myself.” Her voice was clear, ringing across the chamber, fierce and cold. She looked back, and the fire in her eyes dared Riordan to say no.

He just sighed, eyes sad.

“It warms my heart to see such courage,” he told her carefully. “But do not hurry so to sacrifice your life. If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the taint will not spare me much longer.” He met her eyes, like Alistair were not even there. Both of them knew he no longer had a place in that discussion. “But if I fail, the deed falls on you,” Riordan said quietly. “The Blight _must_ be stopped now, or it will destroy all of Ferelden before the rest of the Grey Wardens can assemble. Remember that.” Eideann already knew. She had sent her letters out into the world to warn of the consequences, but they had known for many months now that when it came to the Blight and saving Ferelden, it was really only down to them. Riordan sighed, cutting into her thoughts. “Enough,” he said quietly, calling her back. “There will be much to do tomorrow, and little enough time to rest before it. I will let you return to your rooms.” 

Alistair grimaced, looking between them, fully aware they had made the choices without him. His amber gaze fell on Riordan and wavered a little.

“I will see you once the army is ready to march then,” he said formally, forcing his voice to conform. But then his façade slipped a little and he bit his tongue. “I guess this ends soon, one way or another.” 

“That it does, my friend,” Riordan said quietly, with the same sort of strength that Duncan had exuded. There was some comfort in that. She wondered if it was the same sort she herself gave off to men out in her keep. Alistair’s gaze flickered to her, a haunted look, pain and fear, and she forced herself to look away, listening as he left. And then she looked to Riordan, eyes filled with fire, and he nodded to her gently.

“You should get some sleep before morning,” he said, all conversation between them exchanged in that single look. Eideann bowed her head then, and nodded before turning away.

She did not go to her chambers. She could not go to Alistair either. She had made a fully political decision without him, and it was going to cost her her life. He needed his time to work that through, and so did she. So instead she climbed the steps from the guest rooms up the tower, until finally she broke through to the top of the parapet, and stood beneath the clear sky, scattered clouds shining with the red of sunset. 

Her guardsment stayed below on the steps, unobtrusive but mindful, and she let herself take the moment then to breathe.

That was it then, that was the end. A Cousland always did their duty first. 

She would die in the fight to come, for Ferelden. For the world. For Alistair. She bent over double, slipping down into a seat on the parapet, and burying her head in her arms, listening to the sound of her breathing. 

How much longer would she hear that sound? How much longer before Urthemiel’s soul shredded hers? 

She was shaking, half from the cold atop the tower and half from the cold in her soul.

She lost track of time, sitting there, head buried in her arms, but when she finally did look up through the gap between her armor, the sunset was gone, and the stars were blinking high above her. She sought the constellations then, tracing the night sky with her eyes, until she found the stars of the Maiden, Bellitanus, high above in the thin air, and smiled at it mirthlessly. Urthemiel, Old God of Beauty, originally drawn in the stars. 

_I will bring you down._

She slowly descended the steps then, giving a nod to her tired guards and dismissing them, fire back in her blood and a cold chill over her. 

Her feet led her to the chambers she shared with Alistair. He was waiting for her before the fire, arms crossed and a cup of strong brandy in his hands. Her eyes traced his outline against the flames, and she carefully closed the door.

He did not turn to look at her, but he did take a deep drink from the brandy, and when he finally set down the glass, he crossed immediately to her. 

His mouth crushed against her, hot and needing and desperate, tasting like fire from the brandy and bitterness from their plight. And she clung to him, tears in her eyes, until he gathered her into his arms and she wept with him, tangled together and burning alive in the heat of all their love and hate. 

When they were done, laying together in the dim firelight, tears dry on cheeks and anger in hearts and desperation thick about them, he held her to him, eyelids holding back more tears, and murmured in a voice thick with bitterness and fear:

“It should be me.” 

She couldn’t do it then. She pulled away, because she was frightened and desperate, and he watched her dress, eyes swimming with tears. She did not look back, even when he called her name, and when he reached for her she pulled away, tears spilling in drops onto her cheeks. And then, heart shattered within her chest, she fled out into the snows, out into the night.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan has a plan; Eideann and Alistair make a decision; Eideann comes to a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: none, though this is a generally dark chapter over all, so if that is the sort of thing that affects you, consider this a warning.
> 
> Comments always welcome.

Conflicted. That feeling.

Everything in an instant could change. Should she speak up? Should she stop her? 

Too late. The moment had passed. Eideann Cousland had fled into the darkness. 

She settled back against the wall to wait.

In the cold chill, her breath misted in the air, but it was no different from home. The darkness held the sounds of the camp, and the breeze held the scents of the earth, and the world held its breath and waited for the final plunge. 

And still above it all the sense of something coming, some creeping darkness, to swallow everything whole. 

Conflicted. That feeling.

She heard the door slam, and looked up to see Alistair at the entrance to the Peak, eyes wild in the night air, bleary with…loss.

And he stank of brandy and despair. 

He did not see her standing there. He called out, voice echoing into the night.  
“EIDEANN!” 

Nothing. No reply.

Conflicted. That feeling. Conflicted.

She watched him sink back against the doors, tearing a hand through his hair, and peer up into the sky, face contorted. 

And then he sensed her there, watching, and his eyes settled on her, hate and misery writ large from his soul. She stared back, unmoving, and he looked away.

“We march on Denerim tomorrow,” he said after a moment, voice schooled to a false calm, “so sleep will be good…” And then he looked away. “Right then.” His hand fell back on the door, hiding that he was desperate. Hiding that he had been looking. 

She stepped away from the wall, watching him.

Conflicted. This feeling.

“Do you love her?” He froze.

The lines of his form were tension. The darkness in his eyes was fear. He looked back, snapping like anger, willow branches and points of fire, and for a moment their souls touched briefly. An understanding between them at last. 

“What,” he said, his voice low, thick with the scent of brandy and veiled anger, “kind of question is that?” 

“A simple one,” she said in return, quiet and bearing his cold gaze.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he told her. “You don’t care about anyone.” That cut was like a knifewound, and it hurt more because it came from him. He should not be able to hurt her so, but Eideann loved him. Eideann needed him. Eideann trusted him. And he was wrong. 

Her brows knitted, pain and anguish. Conflicted. 

“I care,” she said in a voice so quiet it barely sounded like her own. The wind threatened to steal the words, but he heard them in the space between them, and paused, and for a moment all was silent. Was this that steady feeling Eideann saw in him? She did not know.

She tore her gaze away.

“We are not waiting for the Orlesian Wardens,” she said shortly. “T’will be just the three of you in Denerim.” The silence was chilling, colder than the snows and the wind, colder than the deep winter’s Korcari freeze. 

“Riordan says we have a chance.” He turned away. 

And she reached out for him. She did not touch. He was too far. But her voice did reach him where her hand could not, a desperate plea into the darkness.

“Alistair!” His name tasted like betrayal on her tongue. He looked back, and he hated her for making him do so. She met his eyes. “If asking a friend to do something _terrible_ might help…would you do it?” He stepped back, anger fading into despair, and for a moment he seemed merely a boy, buffeted by a storm he could not stop.

“You want advice from me?”

“’Tis come to that, yes,” she said quietly. She could sense his pain like the pain of small animals, but he masked it with cruelty and deflection.

“So, you have _friends_?” She forced herself to meet his eyes, and something in them must have caught him off guard. His sneer faded into raw emotion. 

“Only one.” She need not tell him who. He already knew. And tears swam in his brandy-reddened eyes and he drew a short breath, looking away to compose himself before finally focusing on her.

“If I thought it would help,” he told her after a moment, “absolutely.” His voice was flat, cold. “We can use all the help we can get.” And then he turned away to hide his anguish, and the door slammed shut behind him, echoing across the frigid air of the night at Soldier’s Peak. 

Morrigan sank back against the stone wall, crossing her arms about herself, and hung her head.

Conflicted. This feeling…

And she let herself feel it. Conflict. Hate. Despair. Anguish. Indecision. Need.

It would change everything.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

She reached to wipe it away angrily with the back of her hand.

“Weakness,” she chastised herself, face twisted around that knowledge. She thought of Flemeth’s lessons, the danger of needing people. And then she gazed up the stars in the sky and closed her eyes tight to feel it more.

 _First you must survive,_ Eideann had told her. _And then you must live. Flemeth may have been right to worry, but you were right to desire as well. It is part of our humanity._

“You knew it could come to this,” she told herself in a quiet whisper, speaking to the stars. “You warned her.” 

_I may not always prove…worthy…of your friendship…_

She pushed away from the wall and pulled her hood up against the night chill before slipping down the steps and into the night.

***

She did not feel the cold. Or rather, she could not tell the cold from the chill that ran in her veins from the darkspawn taint. She was passed the point of caring that her silk tunic was not warm enough in the frigid air. It did not matter that her skin was clammy and speckled with raised goosebumps. The breeze that raked through her hair made her head ache, and still she did not care.

She could not go back to him, not like that. She was frightened of her own weakness that she might let him take this duty from her, and she could not let him. So instead she stood, gazing northward to the darkened shores of the Waking Sea somewhere in the distance, buried in night, and she thought at last of Highever and of home. 

She still had promises to keep. Protect Alistair, end the Blight, join the Grey Wardens and do what is right. One by one she listed them into the darkness in her mind. One by one she swore them again, determined and cold.

The tears were freezing against her cheeks, whatever remained anyway. She had not bothered to wipe them away. She let them stand, proof of her grief, the proof she needed because her heart would not let her accept that grief was there. And she still felt a little sick in spite of it all, the future winding up into tight knots of inevitability deep in the pit of her stomach.

She peered across the Coastlands, surveying her lands, and shivered. Whether it was from the cold on her skin or the cold in her heart, it did not matter.

A soft sound of footsteps broke her silence, and she whipped around to catch sight of Morrigan crossing the snows to her, eyes narrow in the darkness, glowing like a cat’s. The Witch paused, considering her in silence, and then carefully stepped forward again.

“Do not be alarmed,” she said quietly. “It is only I.” Eideann looked away, angrily running her fingers over her cheeks to hide the evidence of her sorrow, and then shook her head.

“Is…is everything alright?” she asked quietly into the wind. The Witch drew alongside her, peering northward with her, and for a moment it felt almost companionable. 

“I…am well,” Morrigan said after a moment. “’Tis you who are in danger.” A great weariness settled over Eideann then, and she sighed, crossing her arms about herself. She had known that it would come to this, sometime, somehow. She had not known when or what, just that one day she would need to deal with this. The last vestiges of Flemeth’s plan, the reason for keeping them alive. Flemeth was a self-interested creature, and Morrigan was as well beneath it all. Whatever friendship stood between them, there had always been this as well. This brooding darkness lying in wait and biding its time.

“I decided it was time we spoke,” Morrigan said softly. “I have a plan, you see. A way out.” Her cat’s eyes slid to Eideann’s in the night. “The loop in your hole.” She shifted and then turned, considering her a moment. “I know what happens when the Archdemon dies, that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed. And that Grey Warden could be you.” 

_Would_ be her. All it took was for Riordan to fail. And he was not at the pinnacle of strength. 

Eideann closed her eyes a moment, then looked back into the north, jaw set. 

“I have come to tell you this does not need to be,” Morrigan said quietly, and Eideann swallowed. Ever in favor of self-preservation. She felt the words wash over her and die in a flicker of lost hope, and then she drew a breath and turned to the Witch with cold eyes. 

“And how do you you about this?” she asked quietly. She already suspected the answer. Morrigan raised her chin slightly, wind rustling her swept-up hair. 

“I know a great many things,” she said simply. “How I know is not as important as what I am offering you, however.” She toyed with her fingernails a moment, eyes sharp. “I offer a way out, a way out for _all_ the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice.” She turned away, looking towards the coast. “A ritual, peformed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night.” Eideann gazed at her a moment, then turned her face away as well. 

“What sort of ritual is this?” she asked coldly. She could feel the chill of darkness now, and it was suffocating. 

“It is old magic,” Morrigan said, “from a time before the Circle of Magi was created. Some would call it blood magic, but I think that means little to one like you.” Eideann turned her back on the woman, bowing her head.

The Joining was blood magic, after a form. The ancient ways were sealed in the blood of people, not the power of spirits and the Fade. Blood had always painted its lines of power across Thedas, a twisting noose to hang them all with the power of men’s minds went astray. Blood magic may have cracked the Fade, brought the darkspawn upon them, and blood magic had saved them when the first Wardens rose.

And she felt the roiling in her stomach and grimaced, disgusted with herself.

She thought of Connor and the Tower, and her eyes went glassy a moment with more tears. And then she pushed the thoughts away. 

“Nothing comes without a price,” she murmured, and Morrigan, beside her shifted. 

“Perhaps,” the Witch said softly, “but that price need not be so unbearable. Especially if there is much to be gained.” Killing the Archdemon was blood magic itself, in a way. The sacrifice of an entire soul caught in a blood magic Joining to stop a Blight. It was not so small a price to pay really. And this choice was hers. “All I ask,” Morrigan said, “is that you listen to what I have to offer. Nothing more.” 

“Tell me,” Eideann said, eyes cold, turning back. Morrigan turned back to the lip of the volcano, the northern coastline in the distance a goal they could not reach. 

“What I propose is this,” she said, voice measured. “Convince Alistair to lay with me, here, tonight, and from this ritual, a child shall be conceived within me. The child will bear the taint, and when the Archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The Archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process.”

Eideann’s heart felt like ice. Tears pricked her eyes, a rising hatred, and twisting sense of the cruelty of fate, and she opened her mouth to speak. She couldn’t. Instead she turned away, unable to look at the Witch, and her whole head ached. When she finally did force everything down and looked back, her eyes were narrowed.

“I see,” she said bitterly. “And what is in it for you?” 

“In return,” Morrigan said softly, “I conceive a child, one who will be born with the soul of an Old God. After this is done, you allow me to walk away, and you do not follow. Ever. The child will be mine to raise as I wish.” 

There were a thousand questions, a thousand reasons to say no, to flat out refuse to even consider it. But she knew Morrigan, and she sensed no threat, only the dark depths of ancient power swirling into the abyss beyond what she could see. 

What it really came down to was a simple question of belief: did Eideann believe the Old Gods had brought the darkspawn taint and the Blights, or did she believe the taint corrupted the Old Gods? 

The Chantry said the Maker locked away the Old Gods because they encouraged men to use magic to corrupt the Black City. Those that entered the City were cast back as the first darkspawn. It was the corrupted Old Gods, the clerics claimed, that called to the darkspawn to seek them out, and that rise to bring the Blights.

But Eideann had seen much since those early days, and she had learned more than enough to cast those simplistic explanations into doubt. Darkspawn bred from the tortured souls of humans, elves, dwarves, Qunari. The taint corrupted the land and the people, twisting them into hollow ghouls, shades of their former selves. And if the Olds Gods were tainted first, then Riordan’s claim in Denerim that they were corrupted by the darkspawn instead, and the Warden maps that listed where the Old Gods slumbered beneath the earth, did not make sense. Which meant the taint came first, then and after it all the horrible twisted things. Whatever the Blight was, whatever caused the twisted malformation of evil, was something entirely different from the Old Gods themselves. The Old Gods were victims as much as they. 

Eideann knew better than to believe that self-interest was evil. The self-interest of Morrigan had still kept them with her, and she had worked tirelessly to help them. The self-interest of Flemeth had saved their lives and seen them from the Wilds. 

Evil came from the minds of men. Eideann knew that the darkest things she had seen were not the work of darkspawn, which were mad creatures driven by the hive mind of insanity to destroy and devour and thrive. They came from the minds of people, twisting and tortured. Rendon Howe, Loghain Mac Tir, the Paragon Branka, Zathrien’s vengeance…

And she felt that chill settle over her. 

The decision was one between her life and the life of an unborn child that had not even been conceived. It was Urthemiel that Morrigan sought, not some first-born bastard heir, and if the Old Gods were untainted, and this would break the cycle of the Blights, then what really mattered then was whether she could go through with such a plan herself. Could she justify, in her heart, the betrayal to her lover asking him to do such a thing? Could she justify trading her own sacrifice for a child’s? Could she justify it all? 

“I need to know more about this child,” she said, hearing the pain thick in her voice, and Morrigan gave her a quiet look, dark and for once unjudging. 

“The child won’t be hurt, will it?” Morrigan pursed her lips.

“Ignoring that after but one night it could barely be called a child, no, it will not be hurt. It will be changed.” Eideann drew a breath.

“Will it be evil? What will it become?” Morrigan crossed her arms.

“Allow me to say that what I seek is the essence of the Old God that once was and not the dark forces that corrupted it.” Her eyes fixed on Eideann’s narrow in the moonlight, and she wet her lips. “Some things are worth preserving in this world,” she said, and those words held a potency Eideann felt echo back in the space between them. “Make of that what you will.”

“What do you intend to do with the child?” she asked quietly, stepping closer. Morrigan looked away.

“I do not wish to tell you.” Eideann shook her head angrily, voice rising in volume a little.

“I am not giving you a choice, Morrigan.” The woman paused, and then looked back, disconcerted.

“The child will…represent freedom,” she finally said. “For an ancient power. A chance to be reborn apart from the taint. Is that not reason enough to do it?” Eideann looked away, shoulders hunched, feeling broken and small. “I will raise the child apart from the rest of society and teach it to respect that from which it came. Beyond that, you need know nothing else.”

“And Alistair?” Eideann asked bitterly. “What if he wants to see the child.” 

“I have no doubt that he may,” the Witch said, crossing her arms in much the same way Eideann herself was, “but he will not.” She sounded very decisive in that, as if she had spent a great deal of time coming to that decision. “It is _all_ I ask for in return.” As if it were a trade. 

And then again, it was. Dehumanizing this child to save themselves. Eideann felt sick again, shaking her head.

“How do you even know that this will work?!” she insisted, trying to battle the rising panic, the anger, the betrayal. Morrigan looked sidelong to her, eyes cool and narrow.

“This is what my Mother intended when she sent me with you,” she finally admitted. “She was the one who first gave me this ritual and told me of what I was meant to do.” Meant to do. Sent to do it. Duty and destiny and fate all intertwined, and Maker, she was sick of it all. “This does not surprise you, does it? Did you not wonder why Flemeth saved your life? Why she aided you? This is why. What is important is that I am offering this to you, now. It will work, and it will save your life.” A payment. A repayment. Morrigan was settling her debt in the cruelest way possible. A life for a life. 

Alistair’s first-born, and a bastard..? That would destroy him. What she felt did not matter. 

“Why Alistair?” Eideann demanded, wheeling on her. “Why not Riordan! Why this? Why now?!” Morrigan’s eyes went cold, icy. She had made a decision here too, after all. Eideann recognized the reservation in her eyes as well. It was foolish to think the sacrifice was one-sided here.

“Even if I thought Riordan could be convinced, he is unsuitable. I need one who has not been tainted for long – it must be him and it must be tonight.” There was a finality in her voice.

“And you actually think,” Eideann asked softly, “that Alistair will agree to this?” They hated one another. Asking the bastard Templar who would be King to father a first-born bastard in a blood magic ritual…Even if she tried, Eideann did not know she could sway him, and she did not want to try.

“If you care for him,” Morrigan said angrily, “as you seem to, you will convince him to. Consider what the alternative might be?” Each of Eideann’s own doubts surfaced, and Morrigan hammered each one home like a knife to the heart which each words she spoke. “Do you think Alistair will fail to do his duty as the future king and save his country? And if you take the blow instead, he loses the woman he loves. How do you think he would feel about that?” She retreated a little from Eideann’s glare, but her look was still fierce. “You have many good reasons to tell him to save his own life. I think you should consider them carefully.” 

Even the thought of it all was painful. To do this, to Alistair, on the eve of war, when the grief hung so heavy between them they were suffocating…

He should be inside her those last nights, not with Morrigan.

But what the cost if they didn’t? Ferelden could not face a long future of reparation and recovery without a king. For all their planning, Alistair could yet take that blow, whether she willed it or not. And she had little enough right to rule should he fall, as she had known before. That bloodline that linked them to Calenhad kept them strong. The Couslands were respected, but she could not devote years to winning another civil war. Ferelden would not thrive under Anora, who would rise up again in the wake of such a catastrophy and try to reclaim the throne. And if she fell, Alistair would be short the one who had politicked hard enough to flip the Landsmeet in his favor, who knew what needed to be done. Even Arl Eamon had been unable to maneuver his way from Anora’s traps, Loghain’s dangerous backlashes. Alistair alone would fall into each one. And Anora was already scheming in the tower, Eideann knew.

There was no guarantee Riordan could be the one to kill Urthemiel. Try as she might, she could not escape that fact. There was a two in three chance that Ferelden would be plunged back into chaos, and in the last year they had all witnessed the destructive impact of that. No, when she weighed the risks, when she considered all she knew of the Old Gods, the Blight, and Ferelden as a whole, she did not have a choice.

It cut like a knife, and she felt herself bleeding inside, but she fixed Morrigan with a cold look.

“All right,” she said quietly, hate in her voice, “I’ll do it.” 

And then she turned away, shaking, and forced her nerves to settle to cold resolution. She was not going to battle with him. She was going to beg.

The Peak was still alive, in its own way, full of nervous souls, but she walked past them all like a ghost haunting the corridors in grief. Morrigan followed her, silent and solemn, towards the office and the adjoining chambers, and there she stopped, waiting by the fireplace, as Eideann drew the courage to face Alistair again.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when she entered, eyes glassy with brandy and despair. He smelled of the stuff, but he was not drunk, just tipsy enough to dull the pain a little, and he looked up at her a moment, unmoving, before setting aside his glass. 

He rose, watching her, eyes haunted, and she closed the door behind her, holding up her hands. If she touched him now, if he touched her, she would be unable to say the words, to do what must be done. 

“Are you…alright?” she asked him quietly. He gave a twisting smile, mirthless and desperate, and looked away a moment before shaking his head.

“Not really,” he told her quietly, his voice sounding achy. “All these men look at me, and I see it in their eyes: I’m their King.” He motioned to himself, ruffled from bed and reeking of brandy, and she blinked back a few tears. “But now you’re changing the subject,” he said quietly. “This isn’t about me. I’m tired, but I’m not stupid.” Eideann swallowed at the concern in his eyes, the tender love that broke her heart to feel and see. She thought of rose petals in her pack, the way his eyes shone like gold, and she looked away. She had never been speechless and uncertain near him. Not like this. She was scaring him. She could read it in every angle of his body. He took a step forward and she put her hands up again to stop him, causing him to freeze. 

“Alistair, we need to talk.” He stared at her a moment, and then picked up his brandy and downed the rest before crossing his arms.

“This is what I get for becoming King,” he muttered sardonically. “Everyone always brings you the bad news.” He gave a sigh, then fixed her with a look, eyebrow raised. “So what is it then? Rats running amok? Cheese supplies run low? I can take it.” Eideann forced herself to meet his eyes.

“I love you,” she told him quietly, and it hurt to say the words. “You know that, right?” He let his arms drop and stared, concern in his gaze.

“Could you make it sound more ominous?” he asked her quietly. “Tell me already.”

“I…need you to do something you won’t like.” His eyes narrowed and his chin raised slightly as he surveyed her.

“I don’t care for the sound of that,” he said softly. “What are we talking about exactly?”

“I need you to…take part in a magic ritual.” He blinked and she closed her eyes a moment.

“Oh. Something Morrigan cooked up no doubt,” he finally said, something of recognition in his eyes. Had Morrigan spoken to him already? But no…he would not be like this if she had. “What do you need me to do.” 

Eideann wanted to cry. But she forced the words out, vulnerable, scared, desperate.

“You need to sleep with her.” 

His first instinct was the laugh, turning away and shaking his head bitterly.

“Cute,” he said, setting aside his empty glass. “This is payback, right? For all the jokes?” He glanced sidelong to her, and his smirk slipped into nothing. He froze. “But…you’re not joking. You’re actually serious?” He turned away then, and she wanted him to be angry, to shout, to scream. Instead he just fell into quiet, and that was worse.

“Wow,” he finally said, unable to meet her eyes. “Be killed by the Archdemon, or sleep with Morrigan…” He did meet her eyes then, and his were full of betrayal. “How does someone make that kind of choice?” he said coarsely. “You’re not…actually asking me to do this, are you? What kind of ritual is this, anyway?!” Every word was a knife into the wounds Morrigan’s own arguments had left in her heart.

She owed him the whole truth. She had chosen to make him king. She had chosen to marry him. She had chosen to kill the Archdemon. This choice _must_ be his, and she would not deny him it. 

“I won’t lie to you,” she said softly, lowering her eyes. “It will produce a child.” He exploded.

“What!? I…I must be hearing things, but are you telling me to _impregnate_ Morrigan in some kind of magical sex rite?!” His voice echoed about the room, and she looked up, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “This…this… _child_. Why would Morrigan _want_ such a thing? Does she want an heir to the throne?!” That one, at least, she was prepared for, because she knew that was the one thing that was absolutely not one of Morrigan’s reasons. If Eideann herself had been capable, Morrigan would have been asking her, not Alistair. Alistair was just necessity in this case. The throne had nothing to do with it. But she did not have the heart to tell him the real reasons, Chantry-raised Templar-trained King that he was. And she was still not entirely sure herself, so she just shook her head.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” He scoffed angrily.

“Now there is a conversation I’m looking forward to…” he muttered, turning away. And then finally he sank into a seat on the edge of the bed, staring at the fireplace and avoiding her. “Look,” he said frankly, “even if I was willing to entertain this idea…and I’m not saying I am…is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure?” The hurt in his eyes was clear.

The tears pricked in her eyes. She forced them back with thoughts of Ferelden, of what would happen if they failed to do this now.

“I’m sure this is the right thing to do,” she said, forcing her voice to be strong. Some sacrifice just had to be made.

“Then…” He looked to her then, falling quiet a moment, and the pause between them was like the depths of the Void itself. And then he bowed his head, defeated. “Alright, I trust you,” he said softly. “I’ll…I’ll do it.” He looked up to the ceiling, and then pushed himself up. “Ugh, where is she? Let’s…get this over with before I change my mind.” Eideann stepped clear as he pushed past her into the other chamber, and then she turned to follow.

Morrigan was looking into the flames of the fireplace there, dancing by magic without any kindling. She looked up at their approach however, eyes narrow and dark. 

“Ah, it seems your…talk…is done?” There was caution on her voice, and while Eideann could not thank her for it, part of her focused in on the small moment of fragility that served as proof this was not any of their choice. 

“Great,” Alistair muttered, looking away. “It isn’t a dream.” Morrigan’s eyes flickered to him a moment, then back to Eideann in the dimly lit room. 

“What is it to be then?” she asked softly. “Has a decision been reached?” Eideann met the woman’s gaze, forcing the Witch to feel the pain within her, windows to her soul burning like fire in that stare. And then she looked away, to Alistair, and Morrigan too considered him. It was, after all his choice. He just stared back, raw and sullen, and swallowed in the silence there.

“Alistair has…agreed to your request,” Eideann finally said. Her heart was constricted in her chest.

“Wait.” It skipped at beat at the urgency in Alistair’s voice. He looked between them, anxious. “I want to ask about this…child…the one you…want.” Morrigan raised her chin, eyes slipping for a moment to Eideann.

“Interesting,” she said darkly. “Honest would not have been my first choice.” Eideann tilted her head slightly, shaking it and narrowing her eyes.

“The difference between us,” she murmured into the air and let that stand. 

“I…just want o make sure this child won’t be a threat later,” Alistair said, forcing all emotion from his voice. He sounded dead, or worse. “Just…show up somewhere and threaten Ferelden.” Morrigan drew a breath, and there was a touch of kindness in her sharp eyes. 

“You have my word,” she said. For Eideann at least that was enough. The Morrigan sighed. “Come, Alistair,” she told him softly, “let’s…go somewhere more private.” Eideann closed her eyes, but Morrigan did not turn towards the bedroom she and Alistair were sharing, and she took any small blessings she could in that instant. “Believe me when I say you will not hate this quite so much as you believe,” Morrigan said softly, and then backed a few steps towards the office door before turning on her heel. 

Eideann would hate it every bit as much as she believed, though, and she gritted her teeth.

Alistair stared for a moment into the flames, jaw set, and she saw the hatred and indecision flicker across his face before he closed his eyes and gave his head a small shake, then a nod, like he were forcing himself into it. And then he turned. 

His eyes caught hers in the firelight, and he froze, staring into her tear-filled gaze with a hopeless look on his face. For a moment that was all between them, laid raw and bare. He almost tuched her…almost. But then he simply scanned her face, every inch, like he were memorizing her features, and finally he tore himself away and went after Morrigan, leaving her before the crackling false fire. Eideann stared then, unseeing, at the space he had vacated, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She blinked it away and then fled back into the chambers, slamming the door shut behind her in anguish.

Her eyes fell on the bottle of brandy, open on a small table near the bedroom fireplace. Her fingers found the neck of the bottle, twisting tightly there. And then she stood, free hand held close about her, brandy bottle loose at her side, and wept.

Her fingers brought the bottle to her face, and she bent to sip it from the bottle itself, until she caught the scent of the brandy within and had to stop. She peered at it, liquid fire and comfort, but it made her head swim, and she gagged.

And she froze. 

She barely managed to put the bottle down on the table again before she was hanging over the bedpan, the contents of her stomach churning within and then leaving the wrong way, making her cough, tears streaming. She hung over the metal pan for a good moment after she had finished bringing up everything, unable to think or even move. And then, finally, she looked up, pushing her dank hair from her face, and considered the bottle of brandy through blurry eyes. 

The illness rose again in her stomach and she reached for the bottle, considering it, holding it far away, before she finally stumbled to her feet. The amber liquid was the color of Alistair’s eyes. 

She gave a roar of rage and fury and hurled it into the flames where the glass shattered against the stone of the hearth and the alcohol went up in a burst of fire that almost caught the rest of the chamber alight. And then she gathered the bedpan and flung on her cloak, and hurried with it out into the night. 

She took the door to Avernus’s tower, so no one would see her leave, and then she dumped the bedpan over the tower walls, throwing the metal pot after the mess. And then she stood, watching where it had fallen, until she was too cold to think anymore, too cold to even be.

And she sank back against the wall, slipping to a seat with her back to the parapet, and wrapped her cloak tightly about her shoulders.

And she thought through the days, trying to work it all out in her head, trying to make some sense of when and how. She had attributed the churning in her stomach before now to nerves and the chaos of responsibility settling on her shoulders. But what if that were wrong? It was many mornings now, and sometimes during the day, that she felt a little ill. 

She had been picking at food as well, unable to stomach the salmon anymore when once she had loved it. The brandy had made her head swim just to smell it, after she had been just fine tasting it on Alistair’s tongue earlier. 

And she could not remember the last time she had had her blood. 

A wash of fear came over her, and the truth of it sank in, and she felt the tears spill out again, burying her head back in her hands.

How could she tell him now, after all of this? How could she put this first? 

It changed nothing. Except it changed everything.

She did not know how long she stayed out in the cold, but when the tears finally stopped – because she had finally run dry, not because the grief was any less settled – and exhaustion took her over, she crept back to the chambers to find them still empty. She sat in the chair before the fire, ignoring the glass from the brandy bottle that lay at the floor of the hearth. And she waited, for what felt like an eternity, until finally she heard footsteps.

She forced herself to rise when he came in, to look to him. Because it was not his fault this lay between them now, because if she turned her back on him, it would mean all really was lost. She made herself be strong, because she had to be, like always. 

He did not say a word. He simply looked away, standing in the doorway, a prisoner awaiting a sentence. He could not meet her eyes. So she closed the space between them – the physical one at least, and reached up to pull his gaze to hers. Amber, molten gold, the color of brandy. She read the pain in them, the guilt, the sorrow. And to prove she did not blame him, she wrapped her arms about his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. And he collapsed into her, hiding his face in her neck. She could feel his breathing there, and for a moment they stood, unmoving, clinging to one another against the wash of the tide that threatened to pull them under. 

But it was done, Ferelden was secured. What it had cost them to do it, she could not even put into words. But what they had done, what all three of them had done, was a duty. And Couslands always did their duty first. 

They lay together in the firelight, and he said nothing of the smell of the brandy in the hearth or the glass that lay in the stone. They lay together, peering up in the darkness, silent and hurting. Anything more physical would be crude and wrong after such a thing, and so they lay, fingertips touching, silent and quiet and still.

She could not tell him in those moments about the third person in that room. How could she, after what she had just asked of him? After what would come next? 

And that knowledge made her weep again, silent tears on her cheeks in the night, shoulders shaking the only outward sign.

He moved to her in the night, drawing close and taking her hand in his, and she held it back, strong and fierce, to prove she loved him and needed him there. And for a time that was enough, that small connection over the vast divide that threatened to swallow them both. 

They were Grey Wardens, the King and Queen of Ferelden, bound by oath and blood to the service of the nation any way it demanded. If the prices were steep, then at least she knew they could not falter, no matter what it cost them. 

That was the knowledge that steeled her soul, and sent her spiraling into sleep. And for once when she dreamt the Warden dreams, she did not see them as nightmares. Instead, when Urthemiel reared its head in the darkness, twisting into the Fade, she smiled and went to meet her fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming brandy because West Hill is close, and West Hill brandy is apparently a thing. I don't think it was a particular choice, I think it was just what was available.
> 
> The scene between Alistair and Morrigan is adapted from a scene written by David Gaider, and is technically accurate to canon. I liked it in this context, so I tried to keep the spirit of it here.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Wardens ride for Denerim; the final battle begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence

Eideann had not spoken to anyone. She had made a point of squeezing Alistair’s hand when she awoke, but they had not spoken even once as they had dressed in their armor and strapped on their weapons. She had eaten only another crust of bread, otherwise not hungry and fighting the sickness she had come to realize was more than nerves.

Levi Dryden greeted them at the stables, helping his nephews tend to their horses. Eideann considered him, eyes dark, and then murmured a thank you. He did not smile, not today, and his eyes were sad.

“Be careful, Warden,” he told her as she swung up onto the horse’s back and steered the creature from the stables. Alistair followed suit. 

Most of the army was on foot, including Shayle and Sten, but their cavalry was already mounting up, and the dawn light was abustle with activity. 

It had only been a few hours, Eideann realized, considering them, since she had been out there herself, peering north and pleading for a way. 

Riordan was there as well, heading the infantry himself, eyes dark and sad. He did not know the deal they had made in the depths of the night. Eideann felt something twist in her stomach and carefully moved an arm down to press her armor flat there, gritting her teeth. She did not have the time for such things now. 

She had left most of her belongings behind, bringing only her pack holding food, medicinal basics, and Alistair’s rose petals tucked safely in the bottom. She had left the beautiful gown Leliana had worked magic on there at the Peak, hung with care in a wardrobe that probably once held Arlessa Dryden’s gowns. 

Her heart was pounding as she rode to the head of the column waiting to descend through the tunnels. There, she found Bann Teagan, and Arl Eamon, mounted and watching the Captains maneuvering between troops, calling out last minute speeches. She grimaced, and Teagan gave her a solemn nod in greeting. Arl Eamon reached to clasp Alistair’s hand a moment from his horse, and then bowed his head to her.

“Your Majesties,” he said quietly, marking the occasion.

“Are we ready?” Alistair asked, equally quietly. The light in his eyes had gone out. Now there was only hard steel. Molten amber had faded to bricked gold. Eamon considered the forces before them, then gave a nod, eyes narrowed.

“We have gathered all the forces we can,” he told them simply. “The darkspawn horde is sure to reach the capital before us, and so we must race to Denerim as quickly as we can. The lives of many thousands hang in the balance. We must _not_ forsake them.” He looked back to the assembled forces, steel set behind his eyes now. “You have gathered an army to replace the one lost at Ostagar, Grey Wardens. Let us pray that it will be enough.” 

Eideann heard the sound of hooves and turned to see Wynne, Leliana, and Zevran joining them at the front. Leliana gave a quiet nod, and Zevran the ghost of a grin, though even he was tense in the dawn light. Behind them…

Morrigan. Eideann looked away. She rose in her saddle, spurring her horse a little at a trot down the line, considering the forces and leaving the others in her wake. She rode down the column, eyes narrow, surveying frightened faces, and then slowly turned her steed, drawing Maric’s blade and holding it aloft in the dawn’s light. 

Ah, the Knight of Dawn was it? At least she had a winning hand. But once again, she had cheated to do it. 

She faced her forces, meeting gazes out across the sea of bristling soldiers, and stood up in the stirrups. 

“Ferelden!” she called, voice carrying loud and clear across the thin air of the Peak. All was silent save for her. They waited then, for what she might say, for anything that might bring them courage. They listened, attentive, eyes on their Queen bearing the King’s dragonbone blade that glittered in the morning light with sunshine and runes. And she looked across them all, trying to place everything into words. 

But it did not matter what she said. All that mattered was that she was there, riding at the head of the column, fierce and proud as always. She knew that, and so she simply smiled, wet her lips, and then in a loud, penetrating voice called out: “Let’s send these darkspawn back to the Void! With me!” And then she wheel her horse about, rode back down the line at a gallop, and charged into the tunnel without looking back. The thunderous sound of the army moving echoed behind her, and she knew that was all she needed to say. Save the speeches for when the darkness gathered, when the fear had settled in the air. For now, let them just know she would kill that Archdemon, and they would save the world.

From Soldier’s Peak, Denerim was a good week away at a normal pace, and Eideann pushed her troops hard, trying to cut it down. The darkspawn would still be in the capital for at least a day longer than they, and she hoped that Denerim’s defenses could hold. She thought of the Archdemon, the feeling of the Void itself within her, and gritted her teeth. 

She had to face that. She had to kill that. 

But in the evenings when they broke camp to eat and catch a few hours sleep, her mind strayed away from the darkspawn to the child growing within her. She could not tell them, any of those she might normally tell. They rode into war, and if they knew, they would never let her go. But she had to go. With only three Grey Wardens in Ferelden, one of them the King she could not let die, and the other still injured, she knew she had to be there on those lines. 

_How many times,_ she thought to herself that first evening, _will you make me choose the good of all of Ferelden over the life of a child?_ No, if she told them, that choice would no longer be hers. And she had to make that choice. She tried not to call attention to herself, though sometimes she caught her hand straying to her belly. It was too early yet to show, but she knew it could not be long now. How long ago since it had begun? Months, she had realized, and simply let the weight of that settle across her shoulders.

She slept in the tent with Alistair, but they did not touch in the darkness anymore. They stayed on opposite sides, turned away from one another, all that hung between them too large to get around. They hardly spoke, did not meet one another’s eyes. And there was a darkness over them now. 

It was not his fault. She knew that much. She had asked him to do the ritual. She had been the gatekeeper to Morrigan’s request.

She could not speak to Morrigan either, could not even look at her, though she had known at the time that the woman had been as rattled at the idea as either of them. But she had thought of Morrigan as a friend, and this lay between them now as well, and all of it was overshadowed by the Blight.

The army took the Pilgrim’s Path through the Wending Woods descending south towards Denerim through the Arling of Amaranthine. They forded the Hafter River not long afterward, and as they drew closer to the capital, the poisonous feeling of darkspawn got stronger, stronger than it had been since Bownammar. 

And the skies got darker, clouds settled low over the city. The air was red with dust and smoke and ash. Denerim was burning. 

When they began to see the stragglers of the horde, Eideann and Alistair rode forth alone and slew the creatures. It was an exercise of peace now, returning to that duty, focusing on their skill at arms, at what they could do. Eideann’s blades were arcs of glowing light, and Alistair’s slashed in the reddened light. They cut down entire bands before the army even reached them, determined to save those forces for the city. They would need them.

It was on one of these excursions forward that they broke the treeline together, and got their first glimpse of Denerim. Eideann slipped from her horse and crept up the ridge until she could crouch atop and see down into the gates. Alistair joined her, grim-faced, shield at his back emblazoned with the griffon in gold. 

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair breathed, the orange glow of the fires catching his eyes and giving him a haunted look. And he finally did look at her then, and she at him. And she pursed her lips.

The fires that ravaged the city sent up pillars of black smoke. They danced and crackled in all the Districts. Fort Drakon in the distance, nestled at the base of the mountain, rose up like a torch high into the sky. And they could hear the screams.

Eideann reached for him then, and his hand found hers in the space between them, and he held it tight. 

She was shaking. And so was he. Fear, there between them at last, the sort of fear they had not felt for months. Maybe ever. They knew what enemy they would face now, and they would need to fight through the streets of Denerim to reach it, and they knew as well the cost to bring it down. 

The dragon circled overhead, high in to sky, wheeling about Fort Drakon, and Eideann stared at it a moment. Her lip quivered a little, and she bit it to keep it still. 

“Eideann…” His eyes met hers again when she looked back, and for a moment the world was clear between them. He reached to her with his free hand, fingers shaking, and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “I love you.” 

It broke down all the walls.

“And I love you,” she told him back, feeling each word echo in her blood. He leaned in then, pressing their foreheads together, fingers tangled in her hair at the nape of her neck, and for a moment they breathed together atop the ridge before a backdrop of the end of the world. “I’m sorry for what I have done to us,” she murmured, and she felt him shake his head. He was still shaking from fear as well. Or maybe that was her. 

“You did what you thought was right. So did I. Maker, forgive us, but we’d do it again, wouldn’t we?” She nodded, eyes closed, the scent of fires in the air, and then drew into him, lacing their fingers tighter together, and focusing on breathing with him.

And their breathing slowed into calm, together, standing as one. And when he finally looked up, there was a ferocity in his eyes she could not remember seeing before, and she felt it fill her soul. 

“They need to hear from their King,” she told him, and he nodded, pulling her up and gathering his sword. She collected her own and they mounted up together, a single fluid motion born of too many days of fighting side by side until they were synchronized together. 

“And they need to see both of us be strong,” he added, and then spurred his horse back to the north and the army that waited there. 

They rode to the hill then, dismounting before their army, and let their horses be tied to an old farm fence outside the city. Neither spoke, letting the view of Denerim take its full effect. Their soldiers stared, eyes blank and afraid, faces lit by the glow of fires, and the roar of the Archdemon rose high above them, echoing out across from Fort Drakon. Eideann and Alistair stood together then at the head of their army, faces set like stone, and watched the city before them burning, before Alistair finally looked back.

He met Eideann’s eyes only a moment, then turned and jogged up towards the farm windmill where everyone could see him. He climbed the steps, and the army turned to see their king. Eideann slowly climbed the steps behind him. 

“Before us,” he called out, “stands the might of the darkspawn horde! Gaze upon them now, but fear them not!” Eideann willed herself to steadiness, coming to stand by her King and to look out on the sea of faces. And then Alistair did something surprising. He reached to lace their hands together. “This woman beside me is a native of Ferelden, risen to the rank of Grey Warden! She is proof that glory is within reach of us all! She has survived, despite the odds, and without her, none of us would be here!” He reached to draw his sword then, pointing across them all, but he did not release her hand. “Today, we save Denerim! Today, we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailin! Today we save Ferelden! But most of all, today we prove to the Grey Wardens that we remember and honor their sacrifice!” He turned with her then to the city, and Eideann released his hand to draw her blades and descend the steps. “For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!” 

“CHARGE!” Eideann led the way, blades flashing, and Alistair raced down the steps to join her. They ran together then, closing the distance from the ridge to the gates, downhill making it easier.

The City Guard was devasted, the great western gates battered and pried open, twisted on their hinges. But the fresh influx of numbers overwhelmed the first of the darkspawn line. 

In the melee, Eideann lost all the others, instead swinging through the horde, slashing and hacking and sending heads rolling. The air was full of screams and roars, but still she drove on, rushing the main gate, and as the bulk of her army hit the bulk of the darkspawn line, there was a terrible clash as metal hit metal, leather hit leather, and men hit darkspawn. And then the world narrowed. And all that she knew was the path to the gate.

She cut the head from a Hurlock Alpha, its horned helmet flying, and felt the brush of a Templar’s smite take down an emissary at the gates. Not Alistair’s, or maybe it was. Either way, it was madness.

Magic flared about them as the Circle battered the gates, clearing the way for their forces by hammering the darkspawn with stone and fire. Eideann made it to the line, and darted inside, several soldiers on her heels, to clear the barbican. Several Dalish archers had come through after her, and positioned themselves against the second gates for cover as they aimed into the darkspawn defenses. One of them shouted something in Elvhen, the ancient tongue that was almost lost, and Eideann fell back as a hail of darkspawn arrows almost peppered her with fletching. 

Leliana hit the wall beside her, eyes grim and shallow, and she leaned around Eideann to fire off an arrow herself. Eideann, unable to move to get her own bow ready, simply settled back into a crouch out of the way.

In the confusion she realized there were too many darkspawn. Her entire head was a blur with the sensation of the taint. Where usually she could determine a direction or a way forward, now there was only a haze of tainted darkness all about her. And above it all the feeling of Nothingness she knew was the Archdemon. 

There was no roof to the barbican, since forces assaulting the main gate would then prove vulnerable to firepots and hot oil and archers on the walls, so she knew they could not stay there long. But with the darkspawn line holding behind the second gate, she found herself wishing for the griffons of old, and grimaced.

“We must move quickly, Kadan,” she heard and looked up to see Sten, Asala bloodied in his hand, considering her where she crouched. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” she told him simply, and he eyed up the entrance before nodding to himself, and gathering a clay jar of…what was that?

“It is not gaatlok,” he said grimly, eyeing it up, but it will do for now. He forced his way through the archers and then into the space by the door, throwing the jar as hard as he could.

An explosion rattled the gates and sent debris flying across the District, darkspawn and stone rubble and cobbles all thrown outward at a speed that could kill.

“What in the Maker’s name was that?!” Eideann demanded, and Sten gave her a rare smile.

“Your dwarves at your fortress had some remaining.” Eideann realized he meant the explosives that they had set off in the Deep Roads and shaken the keep itself, and she grimaced, then shook her head, peering through the gates. Her eyes slipped to him, and she gripped her sword tighter.

“Ready then?” He nodded.

“Lead on, Kadan,” he told her, and she charged.

The darkspawn fell upon them, but they spearheaded a line into the square, spreading out to storm the defenses and claim some space to breath. The gates were hauled open and the bulk of their forces flooded in. 

The darkspawn poured towards them from further in the city, and they clashed again in the center of the Gate District, blades flashing, arrows flying, roars and screams and the sounds of battle all around. Sten was at her side as she drove through the new line, and a number of men with the sigil of Redcliffe emblazoned on their shields drove past her. Eideann saw Teagan among them and turned away. 

A few archers had assembled to fire on a line of genlocks that were taking aim beside a fallen tower. Denerim’s Gate District was a mess of crumbling towers and fallen stone, fire and smoke clogging the air.

She caught sight of the mages, defended by a contingent of Greagoir’s Templars, setting up a fortified defense on a landing above the fray where the darkspawn could not reach the wounded. Further into the district, the darkspawn were being driven further back, and Eideann was dismayed to find that the primary thoroughfare to Fort Drakon and the Archdemon had been collapsed, bridges shattered into the River Drakon below. They would have to take the long way round, it appeared.

The battle thundered on, and she had lost all sign of most of her companions. Sten charged off, roaring, to handle a number of darkspawn at the second gate towards the Market District, and Eideann followed the cobbles along the merchant manors and simple estates that lined the Gate District and the entrance to the city. She caught sight of Keeper Soran dousing the flames that were catching in a line of houses, and then watched a row of dwarven militia bring down a tower atop a darkspawn cache of siege equipment hauled from the Deep Roads.

And then a silence fell, and the roars had receded. She could still feel darkspawn, but they were further away now, and she realized they had driven them from the Gate District entirely. She breathed a sigh of relief, and then carefully sheathed her blades, looking about.

Morrigan was there, watching her, from a few steps away. Eideann had not even noticed. For a moment they simply stared at one another, and then Eideann narrowed her gaze.

“What are you doing in the middle of this?” she asked quietly. “You...you’re with child.” Morrigan raised an eyebrow and gave her a pointed look.

“As are you,” was all she replied. Eideann had not told a soul, and yet there Morrigan was, fully aware. Perhaps it took one to know one. She did not now. 

So she looked away, and then sighed.

“I don’t have a choice,” she said quietly, and left it at that.” Morrigan nodded, and glanced towards the gate to the Market District where Sten was slowing making his way back and a dwarven contingent had set about raising the portcullis. And then turned away.

Eideann reached and caught her wrist and pulled her back, almost without thinking, and for a moment they were both surprised.

“We…need to talk.” Morrigan pulled her wrist away, eyes narrowed, and drew a breath.

“I see,” she finally said in her cold-as-ice voice. “Let me talk, then, and you shall listen. I shall be brief.” Her eyes swept the soldiers moving past, and she lowered her volume a little. “What was done had to be done. I regret it not. Let us not complicate matters further.” Eideann wet her lips, fixing her Cousland stare on Morrigan’s cat eyes, and thanked the Maker or whatever gods had deemed it so that Alistair was not nearby to hear them.

“I know,” she said quietly, and something flickered in Morrigan’s eyes. “I wanted to…thank you. For everything.” The Witch was speechless. For a moment they just stared at one another, and then Morrigan blinked, brow knitted a little.

“I…” She drew a breath. “Yes, I see. You…are welcome.” She looked away, wrapping an arm about herself. “And…thank you.” Her voice was soft now, quiet in the smoky air. “This…means everything to me, you cannot know.” Her gaze hardened and she nodded. “Now let us finish this.” Eideann nodded, and glanced back towards the center of the Gate District, where some of their allies were gathering now. 

She caught sight of Alistair watching her with a strange, guarded look, and bit her lip a little. And then she saw Angus at his side. Her faithful mabari, the only one to survive Ostagar, Fergus’s gift of protection and love, and her very own guardian, taking good care of her King. She smiled slightly and crossed to them, closing the distance and reaching to scruff Angus’s fur before meeting Alistair’s eyes. He simply gave her a nod and then looked up to where Riordan was crossing to join them. 

“You’ve managed to fight your way to the gates,” the Senior Warden said. “We are doing better than I had hoped.” 

“Surprising, isn’t it?” Shayle said cheerfully, standing nearby and considering the gates themselves.

“That will change quickly,” Sten grumbled, sheathing Asala at his back and joining the golem.

“Bloody nug runners,” Oghren agreed. “We’re outnumbered three to one!” Eideann had not noticed him behind the giant Qunari, but he was there, grinning at the thought of bringing the battle further to the darkspawn. At least his heart was in it. He had been there in Bownammar in the darkness, when only Alistair and Angus and Shayle had been with her, and she knew the value of him even then, no matter what everyone else thought. 

“What are we to do now, Riordan?” Wynne asked. “You have a plan, I assume?” Eideann had thought she would be with the other mages at their makeshift infirmary. But she was as covered in blood as the rest of them, and her eyes were hard and dark.

“The army will not last long,” Riordan said quietly, a little breathless from the fight thus far, “so we need to move quickly to reach the Archdemon.” His gaze fell on Eideann and he met her eyes with his own grey steely look. “I suggest taking Alistair and no more than a few others with you into the city. Anyone you don’t bring with you can remain here to prevent more darkspawn from entering Denerim on our tails.” Eideann nodded, considering the troops that were massing now in the Gate District, waiting for further orders. She had a vague idea where she needed each of her battalions, but the Archdemon itself was something that could not be easily planned. Or at least, they had thought so, until they arrived and found it wheeling about in the sky. 

“How are we going to fight the flying dragon?” Eideann asked simply, fixing the man with a look. Riordan grimaced.

“We’re going to need to reach a high point in the city. I’m thinking the top of Fort Drakon might work.”

Alistair beside her stiffened a little.

“The top of…? You want to…draw the dragon’s attention?” he asked skeptically. Riordan nodded.

“We have little choice,” he said realistically, “though I’ll warn you that as soon as we engage the beast, it will call all its Generals to help it. I can sense two Generals in Denerim.” He closed his eyes a moment, brow lowered, and then sighed. “I can sense two Generals in Denerim. You may wish to seek them out before going to Fort Drakon.” Leliana, behind him, bow nocked but not drawn, gave Eideann a sharp look.

“I am sure that if we did slay those Generals, it would stop the darkspawn in the city from doing a lot of harm,” she said. Eideann nodded. Riordan just sighed.

“It may also waste resources trying to find them,” he replied. “The decision is up to you.” Eideann thought over it quickly, then gritted her teeth. 

“We’ll find them. I can’t fight an Archdemon as well as the mass of the horde at once. It may cost lives to do it, but those are lives lost atop Fort Drakon if we do not.” She looked to Riordan, and he nodded. “Do you know where these Generals are?” 

“Neither of them are near Fort Drakon currently, but there are too many darkspawn here to tell you more.” Eideann nodded, and then grimaced.

“And what will you be doing?” She needed the whole picture. He grimaced.

“I will be clearing a path to the Archdemon,” he told her grimly. “With any luck I will reach it before you.” He considered the gathering army. “You already have several groups of our allies in the city. You may be able to call them if you need assistance.” Eideann nodded, then motioned to the Dalish Keepers, Greagoir and Irving, and General Fellhammer, who were gathered nearby. They joined them in the Circle. 

“More of the horde will be closing in on the city shortly, and the gates must hold. We will proceed into the city to find and slay the Archdemon.” She motioned to the gate to the Market District. “Denerim is mostly smaller backstreets, and each District is divided at choke points which we must hold. If we can win back each District, we’ll gain a large enough foothold in the city to force the darkspawn back into the side streets. They won’t be able to stand against us in such close quarters.” She glanced to her own Generals, then grimaced. “There are two Generals heading the darkspawn force somewhere within the city. If I ventured a guess I woul assume one is on this side of the River, and the other in the southern Districts. The Archdemon itself is staying close to Fort Drakon for now. We want those Generals dead. They are the conduit through which the Archdemon unifies the horde. But under no circumstances is anyone other than myself, Alistair, or Riordan to engage the Archdemon with the intent to kill. Leave that one to us.” She looked to Irving. “Leave those mages that are the core of our healing team here, where we’ve established the primary infirmary. There’s some protection from the Archdemon in the air here, at least, and the darkspawn have brought down the bridges, so they cannot enter the District unless we cannot defend the gates.” She looked then to Sten and Oghren and Shayle. “I will be leaving some of my party here to help hold those gates. Sten is a master of war and can defend against a siege. Oghren has battled darkspawn in the Deep Roads for years. And Shayle…” she fixed the golem with a look. “Shayle, you became a golem to hold the gates of Orzammar and repel wave after wave of darkspawn, and because of you Orzammar still stands. I ask you do the same for Denerim now, my friend.” Shayle was silent, and then gave a nod. Eideann considered a moment, and then looked to Morrigan. “And you will stay here as well. Hold the gates until the Archdemon is dead.” Something crossed her gaze then, but the Witch said nothing. Eideann looked back to her Generals. 

“Whatever mages are not on the healing team will hold the choke points. Morrigan can stand here at the gates, but we need another mage to watch the Market Gate, and a few more to stand at the other District entrances.” She glanced to Greagoir. “You know your duty to protect mages, Commander. Don’t let those men and women fall. I also need a few of your men scattered throughout our regular force. We’ve already told you a Templar’s abilities can bring down darkspawn emissaries, and the closer we get to the Archdemon, the more I fear that will be true.” Greagoir looked stony, but he did nod. Eideann considered the Dalish Keeper’s next. “What archers do not remain here on the city walls to hold back the oncoming horde will need to follow us into the city. We can hold the other choke points with Waking Sea longbowmen, but Dalish archers are second to none, and we will want that advantage to drive the Archdemon to the tower. You yourselves, and Keeper Soran’s First, are granted immunity from the Templars. Knight-Commander Greagoir and his people will not touch a single Dalish mage, you have my word.” And her eyes scanned back to the Templar fiercely, daring him to contradict her. But he nodded, and so she looked back to Lanaya and Soran and Ishae. “That means any spells you know, anything you can do to bring down the forces further in the city, we would appreciate.” Her eyes fell to General Fellhammer then. “My dwarven friend,” she said softly and he grinned.

“We’re with you Commander.” 

“Hit them hard. You already know what to do. Control the field any way you can. You are the vanguard.” He grinned and hefted his axe with a smirk.

“Commander,” he said simply in acknowledgement. Eideann nodded, then looked to the King’s Army, and nodded. 

“The Fereldan Army has little experience fighting darkspawn, but they know these streets. Some of them will be in our number, particularly those that come from Denerim. Others will form the bulk of infantry that holds the gates here.” She sombered. “We will only get one chance at this. Either we bring down that monster here and now, or Ferelden falls and the Blight spreads to the rest of Thedas. Failure is not an option.” Riordan nodded, and then looked between her and Alistair.

“Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you face now,” he told her, but she had some idea of the force before them. She had seen Urthemiel in Bownammar, and raising an entire military force by determination alone had been enough to prepare her for most things. “May the Maker watch over you,” he said, and then turned away and hurried off towards the Market District gate. Eideann considered her companions then, as her Generals disappeared to disseminate her orders, and she met their gazes.

“Alistair and I must go, and Angus will follow me whatever the case may be. If there is anyone who would rather stay who I have not already asked to stay, tell me now.” But no one spoke, so she nodded, drawing a breath. “Then Zevran, Leliana, we need ranged support. Wynne, keep us alive until we reach that damn tower. Sten, Oghren, Shayle…good luck. Morrigan…” The Witch gave her a glare.

“After all that?” she hissed. “I will not be going with you?” Eideann sighed, looking away and then met her cat’s eyes again.

“In your condition?” she asked quietly, and Morrigan was surprised enough to laugh.

“I would still see this to the end,” she said softly. “But so be it.” Her smile slipped and there was a deep sorrow in her eyes a moment. “Let us part ways then,” she said quietly after a moment. “You go your way to your destiny, and I go my way to mine.” 

“Don’t make me come after you,” Eideann said softly, but her voice was serious, and not entirely warm. Morrigan smiled ever so slightly and shook her head.

“I would not suggest it,” she told her, “but your path will ever be your own.” And then she softened, taking a single step forward, closing the space between them slightly. “I did not know what it meant to have a friend once,” she finally said. “But you…I would gladly consider such.” She met Eideann’s eyes one last time. “Go. Slay your Archdemon,” she said, voice fierce. “Live gloriously, my friend.” And then she turned away, and Eideann watched her walk to the main gate, and the Witch never once looked back. She drew a breath then, hardly daring to look to Alistair, and considered the others, who one by one came forward.

“So the Archdemon is next is it?” Shayle said grimly. “Part of me is glad that it has decided to leave me here at the gate, but the other part is…apprehensive? I would almost say that I feel concern for something other than myself, even maybe for a soft, squishy companion…but that would be silly, wouldn’t it?” Eideann grinned.

“It’s scandalous to even consider the notion,” she said faithfully, and the golem gave a soft chuckle.

“I know! Please do not tell anyone. I doubt I could blush, but it would be so awkward. And…do try not to get swallowed whole. If the beast were to fly about afterward and poop it out, irony would dictate that it would land on me. I couldn’t take it.” Eideann squeezed her eyes shut a moment, and then gave her solemn promise to do her best. Shayle’s crystals flickered, and then the golem shifted, rocking a little back and forth on stone legs. “Well then, I suppose this is it? Have fun storming the castle.” Eideann thanked her quietly, and then her eyes skimmed up to Sten.

“Are you ready?” he asked her, stern voiced and solemn. “We’ve reached the battlefield at last.”

“Thank you for your help, Kadan,” she said softly, and the barest of smiles touched his lips. That bond of warriors hung between them.

“I have done nothing,” he told her calmly. “You have carried us this far. Do not doubt that.” And then he gave a Fereldan soldier’s bow, and stepped back, turning to the gates as Morrigan had done, Shayle at his side.

That left Oghren, who shifted a little, and then finally grinned at her with a sparkle in his eye. 

“So,” he finally said, “this is it.” Eideann smiled slightly, bearing the smell, and nodded.

“It’s been an honor to fight with you, Oghren,” she told him quietly, and he gave a wry chuckle. 

“Honor?” he grinned. “Nobody’s looked at me and seen honor in a long time, Warden.” He nodded. “You took in a drunken disgrace of an Orzammar warrior. You gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep going. You helped me find the one woman in the sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could have someone new.” He met her eyes, a fire there. “I owe you a lot, Warden. I consider it a fine honor to die for you and your cause.” Eideann had no words for that, and the damn dwarf knew it, cuz he just gave a self-satisfied grin and nodded. “When from the blood of the battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead. As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you. Let’s show them our hearts, and then show them theirs.” And he threw her a salute of his own then before turning and walking away. She watched him go, and then gave a slow nod and a smile, touched. 

“So this is it then,” Wynne said beside her, watching the dwarf. “All that we’ve been through has led up to this.” Her teal gaze slid to Eideann beside her, a smile kindly and grandmotherly on her face. “Whatever happens now…to either of us, know that I am proud – infinitely proud – to have called you friend.” Leliana nodded beside her. 

“We’ve come so far. It’s strange knowing that all our fates will be decided in a matter of hours,” the bard added, testing her bow. “We stand on a precipice before the greatest battle of our age. I wonder if the heroes ever felt like this?” Eideann considered her, and then thought of her dream, told long ago, of darkness rising up to swallow them all, and she wet her lips.

“Are you afraid?” she asked quietly. Leliana just smiled slightly, meeting her gaze.

“I am not afraid. We go to fight for a good cause, and there is nowhere else I ‘d rather be. You are a dear, dear friend, and I will stand with you, to whatever end.” Her eyes narrowed slightly and she nodded. “This day, we will forge a legend of our own.” She gave a soft laugh and Zevran gave a sigh. 

“Yes, and so now we head into the city together to face the Archdemon, hmm?” he asked wanly, then smirked at them all. Eideann shook her head and his wry gaze considered her. “I was nearly afraid you were about to march inside without me. We cannot have that! Let us go and teach this dragon a lesson, yes? It should have stayed in whatever hole it crawled out of.” Eideann gave a soft laugh, and then sighed, looking at last to Alistair, who was watching her with quiet eyes and a knowing gaze.

For a moment they just considered each other amidst the smoke and the fires. And then he reached for her, catching her hands in his. 

“This could be it,” he said softly, and she nodded. “Soon this will be finished, one way or another.” She felt their souls touch and met his eyes.

“I love you, Alistair,” she breathed, not caring that the entire army was there to see the exchange. He just smiled slightly, and nodded.

“And I love you,” he told her back, “always.” And he kissed her, long and deep, as a man kisses his wife, as a king kisses his queen, regardless of who was watching. She lost her breath to that kiss, and all her senses, until there was only him, swimming in every part of her mind, blocking out everything else. And the world was small and everything was simple, and there was only her and him.

There was a roar of approval from the army about them, cheers and clapping and rambunctious hollers that swept over them. When Alistair finally pulled away, they were both grinning sheepishly.

“Well,” Eideann said still looking only at him, “at least they have something for the stories.” He just nudged her chin up with his hand, memorizing the planes of her face, and then drew back, turning to the Market District gates. 

“Let’s finish this,” he said, and she nodded.

“The Blight ends here.” 

About them the army had gathered to line the path forward, and the forces that were accompanying them stood ready and determined.

“Kill those godless bastards!” a soldier shouted.

“We’re counting on you Wardens!” another called.

And then they plunged forth into the heart of Denerim, weapons ready and paths set, to bring the darkspawn down. 

And as the drew beyond the first Market Gate, the sounds of everything else faded, until they swallowed up in the silence of the task ahead, and all that was left was their small group against the might of the horde.

Ahead was something dark and dangerous, a darkspawn of such power it made her heart pound, and Eideann knew what it was intrinsically. She exchanged a look with Alistair, who nodded his agreement, and Eideann glanced back to the force at her back, and considered them a moment. And then she set her jaw.

“The first of the darkspawn Generals is ahead." Everyone, stay sharp. And then she turned and drove onward towards the Market District and the first of their enemies. 

About them, Denerim burned.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Wardens retake the Market District; Alistair has a gift for Eideann; the Grey Wardens do battle in the Alienage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated!

The closer they came to the Market District, the darker the feeling at the back of his head. It made him think of Ostagar, of the sensation of climbing higher and higher into the Tower of Ishal, and he did not like it one bit. The force at their back were grim-faced and determined, Dalish archers and Waking Sea longbowmen, arrows nocked and ready. There were a handful of mages and he could feel their magic creeping across his skin, a welcome distraction from the toxic presence of darkspawn beating in his blood. The Templars that joined them felt like something else, something flatter, and deeper, an absence where the mages were full to bursting. And then the soldiers, dwarven vanguard and Redcliffe knights and King’s Army. 

Eideann beside him looked like a warrior queen, inheritor of the legacies of great Ferelden warlords, the Teyrnas that had stood to defend their nation for centuries. What stories would they tell when all this was finished? Thanks to Leliana, they had a song already, but how many more would there be? 

He got a little caught up in her determination himself, though he was learning to stand beside her instead of behind her, and he caught as many soldiers watching him as were watching her. He did not know whether to be glad of that, or frightened. He settled his focus elsewhere. It was too complicated to work out now.

He remembered the way she was shaking, fingers so tightly interlocked with his on the ridge that he could not feel his own for a moment, and he knew he had to stay strong. She was forcing herself to put on a brave face, and she needed him to do so as well. It was long past the point when he could rely on her to carry the weight of that.

He tried not to think of what it had cost him to reach those decisions. He tried not to think of Morrigan or the ritual, but that still stood between them, even in spite of everything, and when this was done, they would need to discuss it. 

Assuming of course that they made it alive. That ritual was meant to protect against the death of the Archdemon, and he had to believe it would work, or else what had been the point? But there was no protection from the horde, or from being killed in battling a dragon that reminded him of Nothingness and Emptiness. They still had to survive long enough to reach Fort Drakon.

But they were not the raw recruits who had been sent to light the Ishal beacon at Ostagar any longer. They were King and Queen of Ferelden, Commander and Constable of the Grey, the highest ranking Wardens and the only ones who could end the Blight, no matter what it cost them to do it. 

He did not want to think of those costs. They were enough to make him freeze in place, stop whatever he was doing. He had to push on, so he simply told himself all would be fine. 

The Market District had two major entrances – one that led to the Alienage, and the other that backed along the street that skirted Andraste’s Own Chantry. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, and he grew concerned as they drew nearer, because many of the structures within the stone walls of the city districts were actually wooden. He could feel something particularly sinister up ahead, but Eideann was already reacting to it, motioning for Zevran and Leliana, bows at the ready, to follow her forward. Alistair glanced back to their archers and mages, and beckoned for a few to follow him as they crept through the defensive gate and into the Market Square proper. 

The Chantry itself was alight, the great sunburst woodwork aflame in some mockery of all it stood for. The wooden houses had collapsed, rows of narrow lanes that skirted the outside of the square now heaps of rubble and charred timber, alight like bonfires and putting of columns of thick black smoke. Alistair considered it a moment, eyes wide, and then forced himself to focus instead on the sensation of the darkspawn further back within the smoke.

Across the way, Arl Eamon’s estate stood, stone withstanding the fires and courtyard empty, portcullis below. Alistair motioned for Redcliffe knights to seize the courtyard, and then he crossed with Eideann, Leliana, Zevran, and Wynne towards the center of the Market Square. The great pavilion that had provided shade to street vendors had been eaten away by flames. 

And there were darkspawn. Not just the usual genlocks or hurlocks. Ogres. Lots of them. Eideann and he had warned the bulk of the forces to avoid those if they could, but it seemed that would not be an option. He turned back to the archers.

“Aim for the eyes,” he told them. Then Eideann beckoned forward some of the heavily armored dwarven vanguard, their bronze-plated dwarven armor providing some protection against the creatures, and gave her own instructions. 

It had only taken one ogre to bring down Duncan. From the injuries Cailin’s body had shown, it had only taken one ogre to kill the last king as well.

But he had fought ogres before, and he knew enough of their weaknesses to hold his own now. He charged with Eideann into the square as arrows flew overhead, and together they set upon the first creature.

It was chaos. Ogres were toppled, some by arrows and others by swamps of dwarven warriors. Others charged and took out vast swathes of their lines, or else barely missed. One careened into them as they attacked a second, and took out them and the other ogre, and Alistair was forced to roll clear, hauling Eideann out after him before the ogres could fall on top of her.

He could sense magic, somewhere ahead, not from the mages behind, and he smited the emissary down unseeing, aiming as close as he could. There was a roar and he knew he had hit, so he called to the other Templars, who had no doubt felt the magic ahead, and warned them of what to expect. After that, the smoke and dust about them was kicked up further by the heavy application of Templar talents amidst the darkspawn numbers. 

He could feel his heart pounding, too quickly for safety, as he dodged a second ogre attack and hammered it down with his shield. It hurt his arm to do it, but a shield was a weapon as much as a sword, and against ogres anything was necessary. 

Dalish arrows found their mark in the creature’s face, and it roared, rearing back, until he took it out at the knees and toppled it. Dwarven forces swarmed atop the creature and hacked at it until it lay still and dwarven axes were shiny with darkspawn blood.

The Redcliffe knights had cleared the courtyard of Arl Eamon’s estate and were establishing a firm holding in the location. Alistair directed their archers and mages to the safety afforded by stone walls. He sent a pair of runners back to the Gate District, and then paused with Angus until Eideann joined him under the portcullis.

“One of the generals is here,” she said fiercely, and he nodded, though he wondered again at how she had known so quickly. Perhaps it was true and those that Joined during Blights really did have it worse. Perhaps Eideann just felt the darkspawn more clearly. 

“Somewhere further south near the Alienage Gates,” he said quietly in agreement, and she narrowed her eyes, swordblades dripping ogre blood at her feet. 

“I’ve sent a few knights into the estate to see if its safe to house wounded. If we can establish the estate as a field hospital in this area, that may be more useful than the infirmary at the gates. But too make it safe, we have to bring down that General.”

“There are several more ogres,” Zevran said, coming towards them from the Market Square itself. Alistair had not even noticed he was gone, but it appeared that he had gone off scouting, or else Eideann had sent him. Without the taint in his blood he could move undetected. It was not entirely unreasonable. Even so…putting people in danger – 

No, it was a Blight. There was danger no matter what. They needed every advantage they had.

“I can feel at least one more emissary,” he reported quietly, considering a moment, and Eideann sighed.

“And there is a unit of genlock to be aware of as well,” Zevran added. “The leader appears to be a Hurlock with a very large axe.” Eideann sighed, then looked back as the sweeping team emerged from Eamon’s estate to give the all clear. She motioned to them then.

“I need a handful of archers and a destruction mage up on the walls,” she said, motioning to the barbican above the estate portcullis. “And I need three Templars in heavy plate, and a contingent of dwarves. The rest will hold our line here.” A few of the Dalish disappeared into the estate, and Petra came forward, eyes determined and burning with fire. She clapsed Wynne’s hand a moment, and then gave her a nod before turning away, one of the Templars on her heels, to join the Dalish on the walls. A handful of other Templars, including Knight-Commander Greagoir himself gathered around, and the dwarven contingent joined them, led by the tattooed Kardol who shot them a smirk and twisted his sword in his hand a little. 

“Let’s send them to the Void, Commander,” he told Eideann, and then gave Alistair a confident nod as well. 

“Stay out of sight as much as possible,” Eideann told them. “Alistair and I will keep away from your force. That should grant you some protection against them, because they’ll come for us instead.” She looked back. “Wynne, wait here and hold the field hospital. We may need your help before long.” And then she gave a sharp whistle, and Angus gave a growl, and the three of them set off across the Square, deliberate and angry and obvious, so that their forces would have a chance to circle around. Alistair took the lead, a step ahead. Eideann’s bladecraft was well-earned, but she had very little in way of defense. Angus was at his side, wardog turned Warden himself, snarling at the offshoot of the horde ahead.

And the darkspawn saw them coming.

They had never done something so drastically stupid, and yet somehow the ploy worked. Templar smites hammered the emissaries waiting at the back of the group, and a dwarven force barreled into the genlocks from behind, which left only the ogres and the General. And the General was something else.

It felt a little like the Archdemon, something of Nothing within it, and yet it felt also like the other darkspawn, Blightsong echoing back across his blood and making him feel cold and sick. He turned with Eideann for the first ogre, and she went for the second, Angus ripping through them towards the General itself. 

There was no way the creature could pull the General down. Alistair saw disaster approach, but Eideann was preoccupied and had not seen the dog run forward.

Alistair pursed his lips and gave a high pitched whistle.

For the first time, the dog listened. Angus came to a halt, bounding back, and tearing into the ogre’s tree trunk legs instead, pulling the beast down. Alistair finished it off with a blade through the skull, then turned, Angus at his side. Eideann toppled the other ogre and then looked up, staring a moment, a little in awe, before turning her sights on the General that now closed on them. Angus did not run ahead again, instead lingering at Alistair’s feet. 

Alistair raised his shield and charged.

The General had a battleaxe of crude and twisted iron that hummed through the smoky air as they danced about one another. One hit to his shield would cripple him, he knew. So Alistair kept on the balls of his feet and dodged the incoming blows.

Eideann beside him was like lightning, darting in and out of his vision, skirting every blow like it were slow and cumbersome. She made speed look so easy sometimes. He watched her wheel about the General, until it twisted, and then their blades found it at once, together. Eideann forced it down, hacking with both his father’s sword and her own, and the darkspawn fell to its knees. She beheaded it with both blades at once, showering them both in blood, and then kicked the body away, stepping back and panting. 

The dwarves swarmed the last of the genlocks, and the mage and archers atop Arl Eamon’s walls brought down the other ogres with well-placed arrows and an explosive shot that just left more of the Market Square in piles of ash. 

And then the square was quiet, and the only darkspawn nearby were fleeing away further into the backstreets. 

Someone else could clear the backstreets. They had reclaimed the Market District for the most part. So Alistair sheathed his sword and reached for Angus who butted his hand with the top of his head and gave a panting dog-grin.

Eideann was watching them, her loyal hound and him, with amused eyes.

“He heard you,” she said after a moment, sheathing her own blades at her back and pushing her hair from her face. “I didn’t think he would…but he did…” Alistair smiled and crouched to Angus who licked at his face, missing by the tiniest of margines, and then flopped down into a seat, short tail beating on the dust. 

And then Alistair rose, looking about the Market District, and grimaced.

“Maker’s breath...I hope most of the people were able to flee on ships before the horde got here.”

“The scouts must have seen them coming,” Eideann said quietly. “If there were Deep Road exits large enough for an entire horde this close to Denerim, we’d know, wouldn’t we?” But she looked troubled.

Leliana and Zevran joined them, both of them dark-eyed as they considered the town.

“Would the city even recover from an onslaught such as this?” the assassin asked quietly. Eideann fixed him with a hard look.

“Yes,” she said forcefully. “It must.” She turned to their forces then which were slowly gathering around them, and motioned to the Alienage Gate, with its damaged portcullis. “We need to make sure we hold this exit. If we control it, we can purge the backstreets around the Market District, and the northern half the city will be hours. Send for further infantry support from the King’s Army at the Gate District. And tell the healers there of the new location for the field hospital. Arl Eamon’s estate can serve as a defensible position.” One of the Templars gave a soldier’s bow and then went off to the streets to the Gate District to report to the others and fetch the mages. The dwarven vanguard established themselves at the Alienage Gate for security’s sake, and Eideann and Alistair hurried back across the burning Market Square to the Arl of Redcliffe’s Estate to report the next stage of the plan.

It was impossible to tell what time it was from the clogged sky, so they paused for a few moments to collect themselves and breathe. Their charge down from the ridge felt like hours ago, and that itself had come after hours of riding. It had to be sometime in late afternoon. Alistair assumed that the evening would be a little darker, but from all the fires he just was not sure. 

Arl Eamon’s estate was strangely organized given all the destruction outside. It gave him some faith in the ability of stone walls to withstand the onslaught. He helped carry some of the wounded in where Wynne immediately set about helping with healing magic, and then he worked wiith a few of the Templars to haul fresh water from the well, checking it had not been tainted by the darkspawn before doling out portions to the soldiers that had accompanied them using all the crockery and glassware in Arl Eamon’s home. 

When that was done, he climbed the steps to the parapet where Eideann was standing, Angus at her side, looking south towards the rest of Denerim and the burning Fort Drakon. He considered it a moment, and the Archdemon twisting in the distance above it, and grimaced.

“The Alienage Gate is held,” he told her, and she nodded, then finally pointed towards the other side of the river where they would go next.

“Do you see that?” He peered over the walls and considered the streets until finally seeing what it was she was pointing out. There were barricades erected about the Alienage, visible down some of the streets. 

“Maker’s breath, are there people still in there?” he demanded, suddenly panicking a little for their sake. “No one got them out?!” 

“I don’t know.” She grimaced. “I thought the Alienage would have evacuated first. That Valendrian and Shianni appeared quiet capable, and we know that those warehouses went straight to the docks themselves. But it appears I was wrong.” She looked to him. “I had planned to cross the bridge into the Alienage and then cut west through the main thoroughfare towards Fort Drakon, but if there are still people there…”

“We have to help them.” She nodded. He grimaced. “That other General may even be there, Eideann. It’s in that general direction at least.” 

“That’s what concerns me.” She shook her head. “When we found Arl Eamon’s estate intact, I figured we could let the Palace District burn if need be. Those are stone manors, for the most part. They might get gutted by flames if they have wooden structures, but the manors are not my priority. A stone estate can withstand a fire, so long as the fire is on the outside. Now…” she looked back over the rest of the city darkly. “How many of the people here did not get out in time? How many fled into the Palace District thinking exactly the same thing?” He sighed, leaning against the stone parapet a moment before nodding.

“So we fight our way through then.”

“I thought you might say that.” She met his eyes and he smiled mirthlessly.

“I am the King, aren’t I? We can’t let them die if we’re the only force in Denerim.”

“I don’t know what to do.” He blinked at the admission. Never once, ever, had Eideann admitted she did not know what to do. She always came up with something, even a temporary something until she made a better plan. He narrowed his gaze a little and she met it, open and honest and frightened. “I honestly don’t know if we should press to Fort Drakon and try and kill the Archdemon first as last, knowing full well the horde won’t stop until it is dead, or we spend ourselves diminishing the horde before going to the Archdemon so we can ensure we save the lives of the people here?”

“I suppose,” he said after a moment, “it depends on how confident you are that we can beat the Archdemon.” She looked away.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “We could die at any moment.” 

“I am as well,” he said quietly. “But all these people need us.” 

“Bravery isn’t about not being afraid. It’s about…being afraid and standing up anyway,” she told him after a moment, crossing her arms. “Do we think like the King and Queen of Ferelden and save the people of Denerim, or do we think like the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and know if we don’t bring down the Archdemon the rest of the world will pay the price too?” 

“I don’t like those decisions,” he told her quietly. She grimaced, then gritted her teeth and nodded. “I imagine,” he said after a moment, “that those who did flee into the Palace District did so with support from the Denerim guard and the remaining individual noble guardsmen, along with the Chantry’s Templars. They are not undefended.” Eideann nodded again.

“Then we go to Fort Drakon and hope we can end the Blight before too many are lost.” 

“Bann Teagan is heading his own legion,” Alistair said quietly. “He would probably lead a force into the Palace District…” It was a suggestion, but a dark fire flickered in her eyes.

“So be it,” she said grimly. “We will send him after we battle through the Alienage. Those barricades are there for a reason. If we can reclaim that, we own the bridges, and the darkspawn are trapped in the city to the south.” She looked up and he met her gaze, somber and solemn. 

“So be it,” he echoed. It did not sit right with him to leave so many to die, but he recognized that cold practicality in which she made decisions all the time, and realized she had always made such choices. And now he would need to as well.

She turned away then, but he reached to catch her arm, and she paused glancing back.

“Eideann, I…” she turned back and he paused a moment, then carefully reached to strip off her Grey Warden gauntlet and glove, and then tore his own off as well. She watched him a moment, eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he just worked the straps loose and then looked up at her, digging into the pouch on his belt. “Whatever happens from here on out, I wanted to make sure that we did this at least. I…” He held out his hand, where two rings of smooth iron, inlaid with a dark, shining silverite band lay. “I asked Mikhael to make them. I thought…well, silver or gold is all well and good, but it isn’t us. It’s never been us. But iron and silverite…” He looked up at her and she was considering the rings in his hand, and then she looked up, and that fierce fire was there in those beautiful rainy eyes. “Mikhael melted down a Warden dagger for them…” Wartime rings. She probably deserved better. He felt a little embarrassed. After all, she was going to be a Queen, and here he was giving her a wedding band that didn’t even have jewels or precious gemstones. It would not compare to anything almost every other lady wore, not to mention every other empress, viscountess, or queen.

But Eideann was not every other lady. She was Eideann Cousland. As hard as iron and as dangerous against darkspawn as silverite…

She smiled slightly.

“Fitting,” she agreed softly, and then reached to take the larger one and considered it a moment before taking his hand in hers and gently sliding it onto his finger. “Whatever happens.” He returned the favor with the smaller one, and then took her hand in his, squeezing it softly. She smiled at him, a small smile of someone ready to fight to the death with all bets off. “Shall we?” 

“Have I told you that I love you?” he asked softly, a small laugh in his voice. She smiled. He sighed. “You make me proud.” She leaned in to brush his cheek with a soft kiss, then pulled her glove back on and strapped her gauntlet into place. 

“Time to go and play hero again,” she told him softly, and he nodded.

“I’m with you. Always.” 

***

Eideann could feel her heart pounding, her hands slick with sweat inside her gloves as she crossed the bridge to the first wooden barricaded gate that had been hastily erected within the Alienage. She was not expecting any resistance movement to last there without her help. Unlike further south in the stone walls of the Palace District, none of these elves had the benefit of trained defense forces. In fact, until recently the posters banning elven arms had still been nailed about the Alienage, and added to that was the illness and the slavers that had gutted the population. She had no misconceptions about the situation there. Any defense of the Alienage would have to be mounted by her troops alone.

She was not willing to sacrifice forces in the Palace District when, as Alistair had pointed out, they would be heavily armed and defended by the Denerim guard and any number of private households. But here she had no choice. She had decided in the Alienage at least, being a Queen came first. Her people needed her protection. And she had brought an army to their doorstep.

Most importantly, after evaluating the situation on the ground, she had settled on a Dalish force. While many city elves thought the Dalish to be backwards forest-dwellers who could not let go of the past, there was no love lost between human militaries and Alienages. A group of highly effective Dalish archers could work wonders where a dwarven or human infantry could not. With the gates set up as they were, Eideann was confident in the ability of those Dalish archers. So she had only a small ground force with her, comprised of a handful of Templars since most city elves were Andrastian and five Legionnaires Kardol had thrust upon her to ‘provide the experience’. 

She and Alistair paused at the first gate, and she called up to the defenses. It took a moment before someone finally popped their head over the wall, looking nervous, and stared.

There was not enough time for messing about. A number of General Fellhammer’s casteless scouts had reported a force heading up towards the Alienage. So Eideann simply called up to the city elf watching them anxiously.

“We are Grey Wardens. We are here to help.” The elf stared a moment, then called down, and the gates of the barricade creaked before they opened large enough to let them through. 

Eideann led her group inside. The Templars immediately went with Alistair to the next gate, while the Legionnaires examined what they had to work with. The Dalish seemed a little dazed. Mithra, one of the archer scouts and the woman who had first encountered them months ago in the Brecilian Forest, considered the Venadahl tree that rose in the center of the Alienage, then the dingy little buildings and the poorly armed elves that gathered to them, and she sighed.

“Elgar’nan! Is this really how our people live?” she asked quietly. Eideann just drew a breath,

“They need our help.” Mithra gave her a sad look and then nodded.

“Of course.” She motioned to her archers to line the walls and then went to where Alistair was examining the second line of fortifications on the other end of the Alienage. 

It was Shianni who finally pushed her way through the group with a sigh of relief, glancing to the Dalish with slightly wide eyes before considering Eideann.

“It’s you! Maker sure gave you the gift of good timing, didn’t he?” Eideann greeted her with a curt nod. 

“We’re here to help,” she said. Shianni gave her a grateful look. 

“There’s a large group of Darkspawn approaching and the gates won’t hold,” she explained. Well at least they were aware of the threat. “We need your help.” 

“We will handle this,” Eideann told them, considering her troops. “Get yourselves to safety. If you follow the warehouses towards the docks, there should still be ships in the harbor, from what we could see from the Market District. You don’t have to go far, just far enough. I’ve never met a darkspawn that can swim.”

“And the dragon?” Shianni asked sharply. Eideann smirked.

“Leave that one to me. It will be a bit too preoccupied to bother with boats.” The elf nodded, then glanced to the Dalish.

“Some of us can help.” Eideann looked to the bow in her hands, a crude thing, and sighed.

“I won’t stop you, but have you ever even used one of those?” Shianni pursed her lips.

“This is our home…” she insisted. Eideann nodded.

“I know. And those people,” she glanced to the gathering of nervous looking elves, “need your help now to reach safety. I promise we will defend it. But if you won’t go to the docks, at least get yourselves inside. Shoot from windows if you insist on helping us.” Shianni considered her, then sighed.

“Fine. We’ll help as we can, your Majesty.” Ah, so they had heard there as well. Eideann nodded and Shianni turned to gather those she could and usher them indoors. Eideann glanced to the Legionnaires. 

“Will the barricades hold?” 

“For a bit,” one muttered grimly. She did not know any of their names. None were the ones she had travelled to Cadash Thaig or through Bownammar with. She missed Sigrun’s chipper outlook a little.

“Then we want to make sure our force is well distributed,” Eideann replied. “They won’t come from this side. We own the other side of that bridge. They’ll hit us from the south.” 

They crossed to join Alistair who was overseeing the placement of their forces. Dalish archers crouched on landings, platforms, and rooves looking down at the second walkway beyond the next gate. If they could defeat the incoming force, they could take the gate, and that would keep most of the Alienage safe once their troops could press forward. Eideann was wary of spreading themselves too thin, but she had enough of the King’s Army left to defend the Alienage, and she was willing to allow some of the Dalish archers to stay behind as well, if they so wished. There was something dark and angry in Mithra’s eyes at it all. She, at least, would have something to say about it all. 

Shianni had indeed gotten most of the elves inside, but the woman herself could not be deterred. She climbed the steps to one of the platforms, eyes dark and angry herself. Between her and Mithra…

Her redheaded cousin had followed her, armed with a crossbow he had gotten from Maker only knew where. Eideann positioned him where at least he would not be hitting their own troops.

“There’s a very powerful emissary ahead,” Alistair told her as she jumped down to greet him. She could still feel the cool iron on her finger. 

Those wedding rings were…perfect. What use were gems and flashy gold or silver when they were battling for the lives of the entire country, if not the entire world? What use was something pretty when there was something that had true meaning? Iron, like the metal they used to make swords, and silverite the metal of the Grey Wardens. She twisted it a little on her finger and met his gaze.

“Bring it down first if you can,” she told him. “The Legion and I can handle anything big that comes our way.” He knew without her saying that she meant ogres. But she suspected that the second darkspawn General was the emissary. They tended to be in charge. And if it truly was powerful enough that he could feel it here…

Not for the first time she thanked the Maker that Alistair was a Templar, and she called to Mithra.

“Focus on the smaller targets. Leave the big ones to us.” Mithra nodded, and Eideann took up position behind the gates to wait. 

She could see Shianni shaking a little atop the platform, but said nothing. The woman had insisted, and it seemed more than likely she was there to prove something to herself as well.

_Let it be,_ she told herself. _She will either stand or fall on her own, and that is what she wants._

There was a commotion at the southern gate, and Eideann drew her blades, hearing the scraping of metal and creak of leather and bowstrings as everyone else did the same. And then they got their first glimpse of the darkspawn horde descending upon them. 

There was only one ogre among them, there to shatter the gates, and an endless stream of hurlocks that flooded the cobbles and dirt of the Alienage entrance. Mithra gave a sharp elvhen cry and the Dalish aimed, then fired. Wave after wave of hurlocks fell to the might of ancient bowmanship. 

But against an ogre, a flimsy wooden gate would not hold. The ogre charged forward, horns lowered, and ploughed through it, sending a shattering of splinters over them all. Eideann ducked her head against the shower to protect her eyes, and then drove forward with a cry herself, the Legionnaires at her back. 

The might of the Templar smites that hit the ground in quick succession made the houses shake about them. The ogre turned towards the Templars even as Alistair ran past it, headed for the emissary.

“No you don’t,” Eideann spat and put herself in its path, blades wheeling. There was no way that beast was going to get through her. It roared into her face, a foul smell floating over her, spittle and bits of its last meal from its teeth blanketing her. Eideann gritted her own teeth and then stabbed it hard in the maw with Maric’s dragonbone blade. 

The ogre screamed, tipping back in rage, fists swinging. Eideann leaped aside, then reached and hauled herself up atop its corrupted armor until she could reach its neck. Her blades found home at the base of its spine, severing its spinal column and sending the creature toppling forward. For good measure she yanked her blades free and then swung them down again through the skull before hopping clear and turning to face the Hurlock legion. 

The Legionnaires Kardol had sent her were holding the gate at her back, bringing down creatures before they could cross that line. Eideann stepped forward, circling, blades arcing in light, cutting through the hurlocks like they were air. Elvhen arrows peppered the forces about her, and she gave a satisfied nod, trusting Alistair to bring down the General. She could sense it now in that emissary, all Void and Nothing. She herself went to the second Alienage bridge and held it, alone, against the oncoming horde. 

Alistair was somewhere behind her, buried in Templar magic. She was aware of the sensation of the General, but did not turn. He had the battle under control back there. 

Some of the Dalish archers had leapt from the platforms to join her at the bridge, drawing the curved Dar’Misaan swords their clan used and holding her line. 

And then the Nothing was gone, and the darkspawn erupted into panic, and Eideann, the Legion, and the Dalish drove the last of the horde back into the southern city. 

The Legionnaires claimed the southern gate, and a few Dalish archers made their homes atop the walls until reinforcements could join them. Eideann considered it, then ordered the portcullis lowered until they could press onward. And then she finally turned back.

Alistair was covered in darkspawn blood and looked tired, but satisfied. He nodded to her.

They had lost one of the Templars, a Legionnaire, and two Dalish in the fight, but everyone else was standing, and Wynne was treating wounds back by the barricade. So Eideann walked back that way and called up to Shianni to join her. 

The city elf, looking a bit woozy and confused, came down from the platform and Eideann nodded.

“Good work,” she said, though she really did not know if Shianni had hit anything.

“This is our home. We have to do something,” the elf said quietly. “You saved many lives today. Thank you.” Eideann shook her head.

“You are Fereldan too,” she replied. “And I protect Ferelden.” Shianni gave her a thoughtful look, then a nod.

“We want to help, if we can.” Eideann glanced back to where the others had been corralled into some of the houses, and then sighed.

“Some of you will be of the most help hidden until this is done, but not here, not in wooden homes. We’ve seized control of Arl Eamon of Redcliffe’s Estate in the Market District. I want you to make sure that your people get there.” Shianni looked a little nervous, but nodded again. Eideann met her gaze. “But some of you can be of more help.” 

“Name it, your Majesty,” the city elf said quickly.

“We need runners. Right now we’re communicating with our camps via soldiers, which is a waste of manpower. If there are a few among you who know the city well enough to run messages between our camps, we would be grateful.”

“Of course.” The elves were slowly filtering from their homes now, curious and frightened.

“Also, is Valendrian here?” Shianni nodded and went off to find him, and Alistair crossed to join her, eyes hooded.

“Are you sure you want to get them involved? They’re not fighters?” 

“They can fight or they can die,” Eideann said quietly. “That darkspawn made that choice for them already.” 

Shianni returned with Valendrian in tow shortly afterward. The elderly elf considered them a moment, then gave a small bow. 

“Duncan would be proud,” he said softly, and Eideann exchanged a glance with Alistair. They had not even known this man was a friend of Duncan’s. He simply shook his head and considered the Dalish as well, curious. “What can I do for the kingdom?”

“Shianni will be assisting us with runners, and we’ve directed everyone to Arl Eamon’s estate in the Market District,” Eideann explained quietly, “but you are the Hahren, and it is you who must lead them.” Valendrian just smiled slightly and gave another nod. 

“I shall see my people safe, Grey Wardens.”

“There was…something else…” Eideann glanced to Alistair a moment, then drew a breath. “When this is done, Alistair and I will be establishing a new court. I wanted you to join us there as one of our advisors.” There was a quiet pause between them, broken only by the sounds of the other soldiers, and then Valendrian’s gaze slipped to Alistair, wondering if he knew. Alistair just nodded, going with the suggestion.

“Half of Ferelden is elven,” he said quietly. “And you are a well-respected voice among them. We would appreciate your insight and advice.” Valendrian smiled then and nodded.

“Duncan _would_ be proud,” he said again, and then nodded. “Very well, your Majesties. I will see to it my people are safe at the estate. Those who would help your efforts will of course do so.” Eideann nodded, then glanced to Shianni who was staring beside Valendrian like all her words were stolen. 

“If you do not mind,” Eideann said to her with a smile, “we need a message delivered now to the Gate District. We will wait here for reinforcements. I need a company of Waking Sea longbowmen, two dozen of the King’s Army, and Bann Teagan’s entire legion. Tell them about Arl Eamon’s estate, but those I have mentioned will need to meet us here.” Shianni nodded, throwing a simplistic salute.

“Yes, Commander,” she said, and then turned to go herself. Eideann watched her a moment, then smiled and nodded, satisfied. Valendrian thanked them and turned back to his people to get them moving as well.

“They are…and interesting sort,” came the Mithra’s flat voice beside her. She was leaning on her bow. “They have lost so much, and yet…there’s a strength to them as well that it makes my heart glad to see.” Eideann glanced to her and Mithra met her gaze a moment, then looked at the Alienage. “After this, perhaps the Dalish clans will find a place of their own as well, shemlen.” 

“Maybe. I intend to see your efforts here rewarded. We would not be able to do it without your assistance.”

“The Blight threatens us all, shemlen queen.” And with that Mithra turned away. Eideann sighed, then crossed to one of the platforms and sank into a seat, drinking some water from the skin at her waist and then sharing the rest with Alistair and Angus. The wardog just flopped down happily at her feet.

“We’ve been doing well so far,” Alistair said after splashing his face with some of the water to wipe away the burning darkspawn blood. “We’ve reclaimed two Districts and are holding the main gates. The Generals are dead.” 

“Let us hope there really were only two,” Eideann said with a sigh. “I cannot tell.” He shook his head, as unseeing as her, and then considered Angus a moment. 

“Eideann, if something happens, or if this ritual doesn’t work…” She silenced him with a look.

“Follow your heart. Arl Eamon can handle the political nonsense. And you will have the support of the Landsmeet.” He shook his head, reaching for her hand.

“That was not what I meant. I plan to do some studying up after this…learn some of it myself so it isn’t always on other people to do my politicking for me.” He watched his fingers twined with hers. “I was going to say, if something happens, or if this ritual doesn’t work…I have never been more proud to follow someone, to love someone, as I have you. Without you we would never have made it this far.” She shook her head.

“Without you, _I_ would never have made it this far,” she told him quietly. “If…if something does happen…watch over Angus?” He gave a soft chuckle and nodded.

“Of course.” 

The waited almost an hour before the first signs of their messages being received arrived. Alfstanna herself swept into the Alienage with her longbowmen, and the moment she caught sight of Eideann she hurried to them, eyes fierce and set. She considered the Alienage gate, then ordered a few men atop it to relieve the Dalish that had been holding it thus far. And then she considered the Alienage again before glancing to Eideann and Alistair.

“We got news that you were here waiting. I brought an extra company. The main thoroughfare is blocked, by our scout’s reckoning. A few of the boys forded the Drakon from the Gate District and found that the road is impassable. The only way through now is the Palace District.” She considered their small numbers, then sighed. “Teagan is on his way with a heavily armed force, and when General Fellhammer learned of the blockage, he insisted on coming too, so we can set a full dwarven army loose in the southern city.” Eideann gave a sigh of relief and nodded.

“Thank you.” 

“What are cousins for?” Alfstanna replied with a small smile, then gave a bow of head to Alistair. “King Alistair, we stand ready.” He just glanced to Eideann then nodded.

“Thank you.” 

Bann Teagan joined them not long afterward, with General Fellhammer himself and half the dwarven forces. The other half, Eideann quickly learned, had been left with the vestiges of the King’s Army at the main gate under Oghren’s command to repel further offshoots of the horde. Eideann gathered her captains to her: Bann Teagan, Alfstanna, Mithra, Keeper Soran who had emerged from Arl Eamon’s estate to join them, Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving, and General Fellhammer. She split them into two groups, one to purge the Palace District of the darkspawn and the other to help spearhead the assault on Fort Drakon. She kept the dwarven forces mostly for that, and the bulk of the mages, but she sent a handful of mages and Templars with Bann Teagan and Alfstanna to reclaim the southern streets. The Dalish would go with her to bring down the Archdemon. 

The night was falling by then, and she could feel the horde within the city. Even if she tried to sleep, she did not believe she actually could with so much noise in her head.

And worse, behind it all now, she could hear it whispering in the dark. Urthemiel was commanding the horde, and she could hear the words she could not understand. The Archdemon knew they were coming for it. And they only had a short amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it is taking so long to get these last chapters out. Battle scenes are notoriously difficult to write, because they can really easily become boring to read if not done properly. As such they take me about three times as long to get on paper. I would appreciate any honest feedback about the quality of these battle scenes as it will help me improve, so please don't hesitate to let me know what you're thinking, even if what you think is "yawn, I'm bored". I appreciate the opportunity to become a better writer.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing soldier travels northward; Oghren fights for his life at the main gate; Eideann and Alistair watch Riordan fall; Teagan's forces push into the southern city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)

The sharp taste of Wildwine made him cough even now, months after his first mouthful. He had no idea how long he had been there. He had spent the good first few weeks of it in a daze, everything hazy and incoherent. After things had become clearer, he had spent the next few weeks denying it was even real. Until finally it was real, Tara and Grainne and Cowan and Toryn and Cuinn – each a true person and not a dream at all. And Baba Zorya…even he was real, a man of steel and ice, colder than the winter he had spent in that place, who had smooth black hair that fell almost to his waist in a thick, greying braid, and a snake that curled about his arms and shoulders. 

He did not know where he was, aside from the fact he was somewhere called Dosov Village. It was a collection of huts winding about the thick trunks of trees atop stilts of roughly hewn timber, connected by rickety bridges. It had taken him weeks to become comfortable going near the damn things at all, they looked so unstable. But Baba Zorya had put him in the position of choosing between crossing the bridges or facing his snake, which he affectionally referred to as Sasha. 

He was under constant guard, even now. If it was not Grianne with the cold stares and sharp bowmanship, it was Cuinn and his massive warhammer shaped into a wolfskull. He had only the barest glimpse of the rest of the villagers that went about the business of shipping casks of Wildwine downriver further south to what he could only presume were other villages. 

He had never imagined in his entire life that there could be such organization amongst a people that were so disorganized by their very nature. But there it was, plain to see, the old ways writ large in everything they did.

He had tried to escape once in the autumn, when his leg had fully healed and he had found his armor again, but Grainne had shot him through the thigh for the attempt, and afterwards the snows had come. By the time he was capable of walking properly once more, it was impossible to consider leaving Dosov at all. Those sort of snows were nothing like the sleety nonsense they got back home. They were thick and blanketing, making drifts so large that entire men could be lost in them.

And the cold…

Tara had been the one to give him some of the slicked leathers they wore, and at first he had been hesitant. But he soon found the slick hides kept in the warm, and bundles of fur cloaks did the rest. 

They respected that he could scout. That was why they had taken him in the first place. They respected his ablilities to catch wind of animals. While he himself had always thought himself fairly proficient, however, they saw him as a child in the ways of ranging. 

As the weeks tumbled into months, and it became clear he was trapped there with them, eventually he succumbed to the monotony of that life. He convinced Baba Zorya, with Tara’s help, to let him go out with the stalkers and bring in some game. It was something to keep him occupied. Tara, who seemed more inclined to like him than the others, and who had helped Baba Zorya tend his wounds when he had first arrived, and who always listened to his stories, stood surety for him. So the Elder eventually gave in, and he was finally sent into the woodlands with Cuinn and Grianne and the dark-eyed Toryn who could hear animals from a mile off, they said. 

Grainne had taken one look at him and laughed, and then told him in her flat voice, “Run and I shoot you.” 

But it had gone surprisingly well after that. He had resigned himself to needing a better plan if he was truly going to leave, so he had surrended to the life for the time being. Toryn truly was as good a hunter as they claimed, and he taught him to listen for the signs and place the Chasind trail markers that let other stalker packs know the ways they had taken. They were simple piles of stone, really, nothing special about them, but he learned to see the signals in them, slowly, over time. And he filed the information away.

It was not long before he was a dedicated part of their team. He helped Grainne and Cuinn bring down a bear once, and that evening they lit fires and sang versions of songs he recognized but had never heard in his life – old songs of times before Tevinter had claimed a foothold on the lands. They beat in his blood like magic, and Baba Zorya, the shaman, had turned the flames green and blue and deep blood red that night. And they had so much Wildwine and sack mead that none of them could see straight and Cuinn fell from the lowest rickety bridge and ended up neck-deep in muck from the swamps, much to everyone’s amusement.

The bear fed them for a week, the whole of Dosov, and the skin was given to an expectant mother for her babes. She thanked him for bringing it for her, and after that it was hard to distance himself from the others as much as he had tried.

Baba Zorya’s apprentice, the warleader Cowan, had thanked him with a bow carved with bears made of the finest whitewood. It was a shortbow, for close encounters rather than the distance archery he had been trained to before, but he thanked him for the gift. It never left his side then. 

And that was the evening that Tara came to him, honey hair in soft curls to the small of her back, flesh that glowed like honey too, eyes that were a deep, swallowing brown the color of the swamps and the earth. And they reminded him of another set of eyes, lost to him, and his heart ached. And in the darkness and haze of the Wildwine, he had mistaken one for the other, and he had taken what she offered, plunging deep inside her, aching and heartsore, and he had wept by the end, calling for his wife who was so very far away.

When he realized what he had done, how he had betrayed her, he fell into a darkness that lasted a brace of weeks. Tara had watched over him, earth-mother eyes sad, but they had not spoken. Until finally he had pulled her aside and told her of what lay far from his reach, a family, a wife, a son. 

She had told him she was now his bride. 

But the ancient Alamarri way did not believe in the permanence of things. Everything fell to winds and time. She told him their marriage was temporary. And she made him a promise, a gentle smile like the scent of wildflowers on her face. If he stayed until the summer, she would help him flee. 

And now it was summer, and his bride, belly swelling with child, had told him it was time. There was a sadness in her eyes, but a fire too, a fire he recognized from the old bloodlines that he knew flowed as much in him as in her.

He had tried to make her agree to come with him, but she would hear none of it. A temporary match to bring new blood to the tribe, a temporary marriage to bring new love to his heart, and now she would go her own way. She would not take his money, or anything else he had left to give, except his love, which she said she carried inside her already. 

She stole him one of the flat-bottomed boats that evening, and distracted Grainne who had been set as casual guard, while he slipped away into the cold mists and rain. 

And so there he was, leaving one wife behind to return to another almost a year too late, tired and worn and leaner, in a flatboat loaded with Wildwine and mead and poached meats from the king’s own forest. And he had no idea where he was going or even where he was. But he knew north, and north was where he must go, so he set to punting the boat forward along the gnarled and clotted river system that ran through the swamps, bundled in stinking Chasind furs and armor, and looking for all the world as barbaric as he felt.

On the second day, he found the Blight, blistering and warping the ground and the trees, and leaving the pools stagnant with the taint. And he knew then they had failed at Ostagar, and that the army had lost to the horde there, and feared. When finally he reached the end of the swamps, where the ground turned dry, he forged a path northward with a pack of mead and meat and herbs, only his sword at his side and his shortbow at his back with a handful of arrows tied at his waist. 

And at last he broke through the Blightline, where the grasses were threatened but not yet dying, and in the distance he saw a village, smoke still rising from the smokestacks of the tiny houses. He pushed onward, desperate now, feverish for company or civilization. He prayed to Andraste to guide his steps. 

When at last he reached the village square, he stumbled up the steps to the small chantry that stood a beacon of light in the darkness. And he hammered on the door, as hard as he could.

There was no answer. 

He slipped to his knees, set his forehead against the ancient wood of the door, and wept.

It was as if the Maker had heard his tears. The door opened then, and an elderly Mother looked down on his smelling hides and furs, eyes world-weary and knowing, and she bent to lift his head to meet his own eyes. 

He took her hands in his, relief flooding through him and causing more tears to fall, until finally she helped him rise.

“Child,” she said softly, “who has the Maker brought to my door, so forlorn?” He met her eyes, tears standing in his own.

“Mother, my name is Fergus Cousland. Please, by the Maker’s grace, what day is it?” 

***

The blighters were climbing the walls. He roared to the longbowmen that the Commander had left him to bring the bastards down before they got too high, and then he and a contingent of dwarven warriors slammed into the gates to make them hold. There was an ogre somewhere on the other side, and the Ancestors alone knew where the damn beasts were coming up from.

But it did not matter. For the first time in a long few years, his blood was singing. Not since he had been betrothed to Branka had he heard the call of battle in his blood, berserker anger flaring into wild rage and raw power and lending him the strength to rip a hole through the oncoming darkspawn horde like the old days. 

He was built for this, the fight, war. And the men could see it in all the armies at his command, and they followed. Those who had seen him drunk the past few days now followed him anyway, including the dwarven forces that had scorned him before. 

Branka was dead, and he still stood. 

And the Warden-Commander believed in him. He would not let those gates fall.

Atop the wall, archers rained down arrows on the forces that were piling against the stone. The sky, that damn strange thing above them, was orange with the fires and smoke. But he liked fire and smoke. It made him think of Orzammar and the Deep Roads and the old Thaigs. And it made him feel like a hero.

How many men died there today, he would never know. He led them all, dwarf, human, elf, mage. Sod, but he did not really know what to do with those mages. They seemed to have a better idea themselves, so he let them be.

An explosion, another of Dworkin’s bloody lyrium sand pieces of work, went off behind the gates, throwing half his force back at the impact and tossing a couple of longbowmen along the walls off their feet. Oghren glared and forced the gates shut again, calling for something, anything, to bar them.

What he got was a golem, which careened out of nowhere and bent the damn things out of shape with the impact, wrenching and warping the metal until they would be lucky to ever open again. And then he got fire from the dark Demoness Witch that was so hot, they had to get out of the way. It was like magma, and it sealed the gates closed, melting the metal together until the Stone alone could open them again. 

Not perhaps what the Warden-Commander had had in mind, but it would do. Now there was only the walltops to defend. Oghren hurried up the steps, cursing human architecture for making them just a bit too tall, and called for a company to follow him. What he got were the leftover Legionnaires, who called out in madness as all of them poured down into the barbican from the top and fell upon the darkspawn there like madmen. 

His battle axe swung clean through the ogre’s leg, and took off a hurlock’s head on its next swing. And he gave a roar of laughter and dove headfirst into the fray to drive them back from the doors. The smoke clogging the air from the lyrium explosives was enough to make him cough, and he harrumphed his way through it to face down the ogre with a grin. 

“Yeah! Face me, you bed-wetting nug-humper!” The ogre roared and Oghren charged, and they clashed. 

And he won. He looked about at the cleared barbican as the Legionnaires forced the outer gates shut from their twisted hinges. A hail of rubble from the fallen towers came toppling down upon them, and Oghren looked up to see Shayle dropping boulders down for them. 

“Hey! Watch where you’re tossing those, rock-licker!” he shouted as some of the Legionnaires barely escaped being squished. The golem just gave him a flat glare, and he and his Legionnaires shoved the rocks into the space, barricading the outer gate. Then he sighed, standing back. 

Explosions, from mages this time not Dworkin’s bombs, shook the walls outside, and Oghren dared to look through the gap in the warped gates. The darkspawn were endless, crawling out of the treeline and pouring down the hills to hit the city. Not since the last great siege of Orzammar had he seen such a force, and even then he had not exactly seen it. They had just…fought it. There was no telling in the Deep Roads how far back a force went, how many waves would come at you. Here, he knew. And it did not make him feel much better.

But he grinned anyway, because if he was going to die at least it was not going to be boring. And the Legionnnaires about him had much the same idea.

“Surface ain’t so bad,” one said.

“Dwarf!” Oghren looked up to catch sight of Sten the Qun…something…peering down over the walls into the barbican. “Will you be returning to business or do you intend to sit around and let the darkspawn win?” Oghren gave a scowl, then noticed the man was holding a rope, like he expected him to climb.

“I’m not a monkey!” he spat. “Sodding sod it.” But he reached for the rope because there was no other way up. “Stay here,” he told the Legionnaires who promptly ignored him because of course the little blighters were going to stay there. They had oaths to die and whatnot.

Atop the wall, he was confronted by Shayle and Sten and a bigger problem than both of them. The darkspawn had turned their forces against the outer wall and were hurling stone at the fragile masonry. If the place had been dwarven built there would not be a problem, but it was not, so there was a problem, and that problem was the structural foundations further north along the wall were threatening to collapse under the strain of the onslaught.

“What are you standing around for?!” Oghren spat, and shoved past the two of them, storming down the wall towards the nearest longbowmen. “Those ones!” He pointed. “Aim at those ones!” 

If they did not bring down the ogres at the head of that column of the horde, there would not be a wall left to even defend. Not on his watch.

He called for some of those mages too, since sod it they seemed capable of making things explode well enough where he pointed.

Mostly he was worried. He knew how to defend in the Deep Roads, where those monsters couldn’t come at you from any other direction. A full on charge into their ranks worked there. After all, if they died, they formed a barrier of dead bodies too. But out here on the surface, everything was too open. The darkspawn emissaries had as much power as the mages on his side. And even though a few of those Templar people were smiting them down as best they could from atop the walls, there was the stark fact that it would take nothing for the darkspawn to move around and start again. He imagined this was how the old forts had fallen, or what it would look like in Orzammar if the darkspawn ever made it past the great sealed gates. Dwarven tactics assumed that everyone was as trapped as each other.

And then, suddenly, they were through. An ogre charged the walls, and its horns shattered the masonry, sending brickwork and stone everywhere. And the wall fell, collapsing in on itself, taking a fair share of longbowmen and one of the mages down with it and burying them in rubble.

“Sod it!” Oghren leaped down the jagged rubble and into the path of the oncoming horde, rage in his eyes.

He had made a promise to hold those walls, and he would. He swore it.

He saw an influx of Redcliffe soldiers closing in on him as the darkspawn poured through the hole into the Gate District, and he swung his axe as hard as he could, splitting the skull of the charging ogre that had toppled the walls. 

“To me!” he roared, and they came, dwarves and elves and humans. The battles clashed in a great semi-circle in the cobbled streets of Ferelden’s capital, blood and screams cutting through the smoky air. And for a moment it looked like they would hold.

It came from nowhere, a shadow of black, winging out across the city and covering them in blackest night. And then the shriek that cut the sky and made his ears ring with sharp pain. And then the fire, purple, that melted the flesh from bones. 

It swept the square, all the depths of the Void itself, and the cobbles were warped by the heat. The fires alighted the towers, setting them aflame like great torches of darkness, and the darkspawn and army cowered in its wake.

A massive blow burst forth across the wall, catching the longbowmen and mages in the open. And the walls themselves erupted into shards of melted stone and battered metal supports. Oghren felt the weight of the wall crashing down atop him. The last thing he saw as the dust clouded his vision was the Archdemon and purple flames raking across the land.

***

It had come from nowhere, suddenly rising dark and terrible above the city skyline against a backdrop of purple flame to the northeast. They only had enough time to throw themselves clear as fire crashed through the bridge and separated them from their forces to the north of the River Drakon. They took shelter beneath the gatehouse as the Archdemon winged its way towards the south on heavy wings. Eideann watched it go, then looked back across the shattered bridge, teeth gritted. She had only a handful of soldiers with her on this side, a dozen Dalish archers and a contingent of dwarves that had been battling the darkspawn back from the portcullis. Bann Teagan and Alfstanna were trapped on the other side.

But they were alive. She saw them emerged, wary and angry, to consider the burning husk of the bridge that now stood in their way. And then Eideann shook her head, stepping out to call to them.

“Cut through the warehouses to the docks and come down across the eastern bridge!” she cried. “The elves…they elves can show you the way.” It was Shianni, and her redhaired cousin Soris, who stepped up and volunteered their assistance. Of course it was. Bann Teagan gave them a grim look, then called back to her across the gap.

“We’ll see you on the other side.”

“No!” Eideann called, letting Alistair handle the darkspawn that pressed at the gate and harried their forces there. “Go south to the Palace District and save as many as you can! Their security forces will bolster our own!” And then she turned away, drawing her swords, and stepping into the melee.

They cut a path through the darkspawn that were struggling to force them back, and Eideann was relieved to see Wynne was fine and kicking. The mage was now their greatest asset, healer and defender both. The cobbles tore from the street in her wake and shot through the darkspawn ranks, opening up a space for them to fight. And the earth shook the other darkspawn down violently before them. 

Eideann and the dwarven contingent, which included General Fellhammer, set themselves against the horde which filled the streets to bursting. They fought them back, down the alleys until at last they broke through into the main road. The Archdemon was arcing in the sky ahead, and Eideann took one look at it before forcing a genlock back into the road and out of her way. But the Archdemon itself was drawn southeast towards the tower. Eideann wondered if Riordan had made it that far. He had taken different routes and spent less time in battles with darkspawn Generals. 

The main thoroughfare was blocked ahead, but the Palace District was lined with gates that granted access through the estates and up to the Royal Palace itself. They skirted the Arl of Denerim’s estate, which was afire in purple flames and then hurried through the wider streets, Dalish picking off darkspawn archers before they could advance. 

The twisting nature of the city made it hard to see what was coming next, and the chaos of so many darkspawn made it hard to sense them as well. But somehow they managed, Alistair and Eideann taking point where possible, Angus racing ahead as their footsteps pounded on the stone and drove them up the ancient streets of the town that had once birthed Andraste. 

Perhaps they would die in flame as well.

They cleared the roads, climbing set after set of stairs until they reached the hill that broke into the Palace District proper, where the Royal Palace stood eclipsed in darkness, and the estates were crumbling to pieces in the Royal Square. There, where the Landsmeet had been decided, they finally cuahgt sight of Riordan. They ducked under the first of the gates.

He stood atop a tower, battling back darkspawn that had followed him up. A Hurlock fell from the parapet and down to splatter on the flagstones below, and Eideann focused on Riordan, who was watching the sky far above.

A great roar caught their attention, and the Archdemon came careening from nowhere, barreling down towards Riordan, who flung himself clear, and somehow, miraculously, landed atop the creature itself.

There was a battle up in the sky, though none of them had a good enough view, and the Archdemon screamed again as silverite found its scales and pierced through.

A wound only, nothing more. It wheeled about, crashing through a tower, and Eideann watched as Riordan was thrown, high above them, from his position. His sword caught in the webbing of Urthemiel’s wing, holding him just a moment, and then it slid through, leaving the wing in tatters, and Riordan plummeted to earth.

It was strange to think it, but she could have sworn she felt him die. A life snuffed out. At the end should could not see the impact itself, she averted her eyes. But she felt it all the same. And then she carefully turned her eyes skyward, Alistair and Angus doing the same beside her, and watched as the Archdemon, now crippled, roared its purple flames and shrieked its earsplitting shriek and then limped its way through the smoke towards Fort Drakon, where it disappeared. 

“He brought it down,” Alistair said quietly, but his face was grim. They both knew what this meant for them. Riordan was dead, and there were onlytwo of them left. He gripped his sword and took a step forward, but she reached to catch his arm.

“I can’t let you,” she told him, eyes serious.

“And I can’t let you,” he told her in return.

“You don’t have a choice. Neither of us do.” He stared and then she turned her eyes to the darkspawn that were flooding the Palace District terraces before them. “Help me reach it, and we can see this done.” And he nodded. What else could he do? And together they plunged into the fray.

The whispering was louder now, the call of the Blight and the Archdemon’s pain a haunting murmur in the back of her head as she rallied their forces to her. There were more ogres here, and emissaries that Alistair immediately pegged as threats. And there were shrieks, she could feel now, perhaps because the Archdemon was so close? Or perhaps because they were not yet stealthing across the battlefield towards them. Either way the problem was the same.

Hurlock archers lined the terraces and fired arrows down upon them. If there had been any other quicker, faster way to reach Fort Drakon, Eideann would have taken it in a heartbeat. There was no advantage in fighting uphill.

But that was the point. Fort Drakon had been built at the foot of the mountains that cradled Denerim opposite the Waking Sea, and it was meant for defense above all else. And the darkspawn had turned that against them. 

Eideann felt the air stir as Leliana fired off a shot along her line of sight towards the first of the darkspawn archers and sent it toppling over the parapet. Zevran did something similar with the next along the line, and Eideann nodded to the both of them before pushing onward towards the Palace gates. 

There were ogres atop it, and it was dangerous enough storming towards an ogre without giving them the advantage of higher ground. Eideann paused her troops and it roared down at them. 

“Leliana,” she said and the bard took aim, Marjolaine’s redwood bow arching back. 

The bard had impeccable aim, bringing the ogre to its knees with a shot through its eye even at that range. And then Eideann rushed the stairs, dwarven warriors about her, and they felled the creature and its immediate support troops in a wave of battlecries and blades.

Alistair came to join her at her side, and they fought their way through the horde. An eerie calm had settled over her, now they knew Riordan was dead. It was an acceptance, the fog of battlelust and inevitability. She stopped caring about what might happen and settled into the pragmatic current existence. Her movements were automatic, coming as quickly and easily to her as the dance steps her mother had drilled into her in her youth. Together they swept the courtyard clean, her steps natural as she danced the dance of blades, and he always where she needed him to be, reading one another without trying. 

“If the worst should happen,” she called to him with a small smile, “at least we’ve had our first dance.” Alistair just grinned back, the same grim battlelust on him as well, and beheaded a hurlock, showering them in blood. Ferelden’s warrior king and queen, Grey Wardens, all two, for the kingdom.

How could they possibly fail? 

They could not. They must not. 

But if they did, a good many people waited for them at the Maker’s side? How many were there in the lands before the Beyond? All of her family, King Cailin and King Maric, Duncan, Riordan, the other Grey Wardens, Connor and so many lost. If they failed, at least they died trying to make it right.

The Palace steps were swarming with genlock emissaries. Alistair hammered the down with smites, one after another, clouds and dust erupting at the force. And then another wave of smites hit the steps, but this time it was not him. Eideann glanced back and caught sight of the Templars headed by Knight-Commander Greagoir rushing the gate, swords ready. 

At his side was Irving and a handful of other mages, including Petra, and they swept the square with the wrath of Andraste and the Maker’s magic itself. It appeared that Bann Teagan’s troops had finally made it to the second bridge near the docks and had been able to join them afterall. Either they had moved quickly through cleared streets, or Eideann’s own company was moving slowly. She hoped it was the former. If she was going slowly, how did the troops defending the gate fare? The purple flames burned there still from the Archdemon attack. 

She hoped that Oghren and the others were alright. 

The Palace District fell fairly quickly after that as Redcliffe troops flooded into the area.

Eideann and Alistair met Bann Teagan before the Palace gates and he gave them both a look.

“Go,” he told them. “Alfstanna will hold the District. My own troops will sweep the southern streets as you wished. Put an end to this before it can get worse.” 

“Do you have news from the main gate?” Alistair asked. Bann Teagan just shook his head.

“We’ve heard nothing, not even had a single runner. Let us assume the gate has fallen and proceed with reclaiming the southern city and holding what we can. But the Archdemon must be your priority now, even if it costs us all our lives in defending your backs. End the Blight, Grey Wardens.” And Eideann nodded, turning on her heel. There was nothing else she could do anyway. 

She motioned to the dwarven company led by General Fellhammer, and to Wynne and Leliana and Zevran, and together they plunged forward into Denerim’s beating heart. 

***

He could remember the wild boy laughing with straw in his hair as he fled the clutches of Horsemaster Dennet for the crime of stealing sugarcubes. He knew that easy laughter like a haunting memory. He had seen him scamper across the Redcliffe yard and down into the village. He had seen him picking flowers at the water’s edge and giving them to a village girl on the docks whose mother sold bolts of cloth and sewing work. He remembered the gentle child who had curled up about with the hounds before the fireplace on cold nights, since he had no room of his own, or when it rained and there was only shelter to be had with the horses themselves. And even then there was joy in those eyes as he cuddled the mabari pups and slumbered away evenings.

To see such a somber expression above the eyes he remembered in laughter left him stricken. There was no laughter in Alistair now, only the strength of conviction and ideals brought forth, and a bravery that made him bold.

And he knew as well the shy smiles and difficult temperament of a girl who wanted to be fire and ice both. He knew the way his friend had despaired because his sister had the cook up in arms again. He remembered spending so long coaxing her down from the tree and doing his best to make her presentable, pulling leaves from golden hair at the wedding. And he remembered the way she had met his eyes with the look of a young woman who had not come to terms yet what the world demanded of her. 

Not so now. He saw the weight of the world in Eideann’s eyes, and the steel that had forced her to stand tall when all other bent about her. He saw the eyes of a woman who knew full well her place in the world she had built, and would fight the Void itself to drive it back.

It made him feel a little old, though to be fair he had only a few years on them both. He was the youngest child himself, and many years separated himself and Eamon. He had spent his youth shepherding Cailin and Fergus, and now he followed their siblings into war.

He could not let them down.

Eamon had always been a bit aloof towards Alistair. Eamon had been closer than he to Rowan, and even in the wake of her death, he had never quite grieved for his sister. Teagan had been young enough to understand the loss as children do, a coming to terms of inevitability. But Eamon had needed to be strong then, for everyone, and it had always cut Eamon particularly deeply that Maric did not seem to grieve for Rowan as he did others. 

Maric had been close with Rowan, friends even, in much the way Cailin and Anora had been close. But Maric had not loved their sister, and her death had left a vacuum, but Maric’s role was not to fill it. 

And Eamon had not wanted it filled. That empty space meant Rowan would not be forgotten. Maric grew distant, of Cailin and of the kingdom, and only Loghain had managed to draw him back to his people, determined to keep him in line with propriety. 

When Maric had disappeared with the Grey Wardens looking for adventure, Eamon had been furious, and when he had returned some months later, with the Grey Warden Duncan and a babe in his arms, Eamon had damn near sent him from his keep. An insult, he had assumed, to make him raise some other woman’s son. 

To Eamon, Alistair was a bastard, even if he was Maric’s bastard. Whatever Alistair thought of him, he had only a passing attachment to him. Eamon’s interest lay in the ability to maneuver in political circles, and Alistair taking the throne now allowed him to keep his hands on political power even with the death of Cailin, their nephew. He remained even now only a step from the throne. 

That was not to say Eamon did not care for the boy. Alistair had, as ever, been a lovable child, the sort that endeared everyone to him irregardless of his status. But it had always been Teagan who watched out for him, while Eamon let him run wild in the Hinterlands, sometimes as far as Redcliffe Farms. Eamon may have cared for the boy, but he did so as any man cared for any bastard, by giving him permission to sleep in his stables, and sometimes on the parlor floor with his dogs, and making sure the servants knew to keep him somewhat fed.

When Isolde had acted out, Eamon had sent Alistair to the Chantry, like all foundlings, and that had been that. 

But Teagan had known Alistair better, watched out for him from afar. It was he who had argued the hardest against sending the boy away from Redcliffe, he who insisted that Eamon reconsider or make some other arrangements for the boy. With Rowan dead and Maric alone with no other relatives, they were the King’s family. And Alistair, however much he was a bastard, had been Cailin’s brother all the same. 

To think on the loveless bonds of friendship that had forged the last two marriages to share the thone, Teagan had been wary. Maric had been a friend to Rowan, and it had brought peace and stability, but there was no love there to charge the power they shared with passion and caring. Maric had always been larger than life, never content to sit steady and wait, always charging headfirst into any trouble or adventure. Cailin had inherited as much. While he and Anora had certainly been friends all through their childhood, it had been eclipsed by the understanding that they would be wed and one day rule. It had made Anora, a young girl who should have been about courting boys and playing games and dreaming, a cold sort of woman dedicated instead of learning politics and compensating for Cailin’s faults. And Cailin, sensing she would do so, had simply settled into the same rhythm of glory his father had walked. If he had some amount of political ability, it was overshadowed by a childlike demeanor – that same childlike demeanor that had endeared the public to Maric. Their wedding had been a formal affair, all pomp and ceremony, but again without love. Only bonds of friendship held the throne of Ferelden together.

Alistair was not Cailin or Maric. He did not seem to have that same drive to adventure, that calling that pulled him ever forward. Maybe it was because he had seen the hardships that Maric and Cailin never had. He had trained as a Templar and witnessed the Harrowings and the Circle. He had felt the raw forces of nature as he slept outdoors. And sometimes, if the Redcliffe servants had not fed him, he had learned to go hungry. As much as Teagan was aware, he had never stolen from anyone in Redcliffe, no matter how hungry he got. 

Perhaps it was also that Alistair was a Grey Warden. Perhaps he had experienced enough adventure. Maric’s time in the Deep Roads had changed him somewhat. In fact, Alistair had been born after his last visit. He had settled into the role of ruler after that, more determined to do what was right, wanderlust settled. And Alistair had been into the Deep Roads himself. He had faced the horde at Ostagar, and he faced it again now. If his life had been lacking adventure, perhaps he may have been like Cailin. 

But he was not. The boy with straw in his hair who had grinned at everything and brought flowers to the village girls had become a man who laughed or smiled easily because he had learned too well that there may not be another chance. And he took pride in doing what was right, defending the people and standing firm. 

And there was a difference too in this alliance forged between Eideann Cousland and Alistair Theirin that rang of something a far cry from what Anora and Cailin or Maric and Rowan had had. He had known Eideann Cousland since she was a child too, after all. And unlike Anora, who had grown up in a net of cold finality, Eideann had burned like a bright star, chafed at the things that held her down, and dreamed too brightly for anyone to cull that flame. 

That fire had been well earned in time, and the Flame of Highever was as dangerous as she was determined. Her dreams were no longer the wild imaginings of a teenage girl, desperate to find her place in a world that saw her as a means to power while Anora knew her place and tried to fill it. Because she had no ties to any house aside from her own, she had been free to revel in the noble history that was the Cousland legacy, and she had taken it and run with it. There was hardly a moment after she was big enough that she had not been trying to outdo Fergus, whether it be riding or shooting or swordplay. She had been underfoot and overhead and everywhere at once. And as she had grown that ferocity had hardened to a sharp point of wit and strength, until all that remained of that boisterous girl was a woman who commanded the armies of Ferelden and decimated Landsmeets before seizing the throne.

Back in Redcliffe he had seen what time and sorrow had turned her into: her father’s daughter, her mother’s daughter, every part Cousland in a fiercer package than Fergus had ever managed. She was a sword forged to protect Ferelden from all threats, he knew. And he respected that.

When she had named herself Alistair’s Queen, he was aware of the friendship between them, but he had not had time to comment on it nearly so much as he would have liked to. He had worried then that the pair of them would be signing their names to a lifelong contract that would settled the kingdom into yet another mutual governance by friendship alone. But now he knew better.

He saw the way that Alistair watched ever movement Eideann made. He saw the way he guarded her from any threat. And he saw too the way that she softened a little before him. He knew that their easy laughter was not only because they had met with so little joy over the past year. He recognized in it genuine devotion to one another.

And he was worried now. In Eideann’s gaze that hardness was back, dark and determined and fierce. And it lived now in Alistair’s eyes. They fully intended to die on that tower. Or at least they fully expected to.

His blade came down hard against the neck of a Hurlock as his troops plowed south along the main thoroughfare, pushing their hold from the Palace District deep into the territories of Denerim’s estates and holdings. 

And he sent the Maker’s wishes to them. 

_By all that is good, by all that is holy, blessed Andraste, see that they live._

That would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, a few notes:
> 
> Yes, it's still a little slower going writing battle scenes. Unlike dialogue, they're bulk text, so this chapter falls a few pages short of the usual count because it is predominantly prose. Thanks for bearing with me while the final battle here plays out. We are closing in quickly on the climax, however, so hold on to your horses! :)
> 
> Notes about the Chasind:  
> We know relatively little about the Chasind aside from they are one of the old Alamarri tribes that has refused to conform to "modern" Ferelden, like the Avvar and in some cases the Clayne. The Clayne were heavily influenced by Luthias the Dwarfson, and make their home in the southern Hinterlands where Dwarfson Pass happens to be. They're the ones that train mabari warhounds as battle partners and paint the hounds with kaddis, though this tradition exists across Ferelden. The Avvar are more barbarian in nature, and we do see a lot more of them in Inquisition, so I'm not going to go into too much detail here. Suffice to say they are not Andrastian, but rather follow Korth the Mountain Father, the Lady of the Skies, and Hakkon Wintersbreath among other gods. They value strength and the old ways, and now live predominantly in western Ferelden around the southern Frostbacks. Comparatively, what little we know of the Chasind is that they too are one of these tribes following the old ways. Research I've done (and there was not much to be found) indicate there is at least one settlement, called Dosov, and another city where no one but the Chasind themselves can go. The Chasind live in the Korcari Wilds, and even into the southern uncharted frozen reaches beyond the Wilds. They are superstitious and highly respective of magic. Suffice to say that the Chasind lore above is a combination of actual explicit lore (Baba Zorya, the animal-head warhammers, Dosov, houses on stilts with plank bridges, flatboats, Wildwine and sack mead) and traditional Avvar customs which I imagine were probably shared at least in some manners with early tribes like the Chasind (the marriage tradition, various names furs and hides and the like). Hopefully this represents an accurate picture, or at the very least it represents a blend of whatever the Chasind believe and the Avvar which also are local to the region. 
> 
> Notes about Oghren at the wall:  
> Original fight boring in writing. New one hopefully better? 
> 
> Notes about Teagan's thoughts:  
> There's a lot in this that is Teagan's thinking only, but some of it is supported in the games and lore. There is a lot of evidence to suggest Maric really did only like Rowan as a friend, and that their marriage was one of convenience, though not entirely unwelcome. In fact, there are some theories about that Loghain was actually more in love with Rowan than Maric was, but we will leave that for now (or forever) as it does not matter in this context. The evaluation from Eamon in game is very Alistair-sided, because Alistair does believe this man looked out for him. In reality, he did not really seem to do any such thing. After all, we know from in-game quotes Alistair -did- sleep with the dogs, and in the stables, and if Eamon were really looking after him, he would at least have let him sleep with the servants. Or sent him to the Chantry sooner so he could have a bed and some food. As it was, it appeared a very strained relationship between them, and from what we know of Rowan and Maric (friends but not lovers), and from what we know of Eamon as a person (honorable and dedicated to the way things 'should be' - e.g. supporting Alistair b/c of bloodline), and from what Alistair himself says...the entire relationship between Eamon and Alistair seemed a bit glorified the way Alistair tells it. He was abandoned as a boy, and then slept in stables and with dogs and left to run Wild (Inquisition confirms) until age ten when the Arlessa has a freak-out (likely because she felt threatened the rumors he was Eamon's bastard are true) and insists he get sent away. Eamon does send him away, to the Chantry. For this story, Teagan was the one to repair his amulet, and he seems the less political of them anyway, the kinder one. I imagine the age difference was lesser so Teagan was more sympathetic. In any case, Teagan's evaluation that Eamon probably did not think about Alistair at all after sending him away and only cared now he granted him some means to power is certainly a valid interpretation that bears out in the story. Even if Alistair himself sees it differently. Believe whichever you wish to believe.
> 
> With regards to Cailin/Anora and Rowan/Maric being loveless marriages, this was true. Rowan was his sister. And since in this timeline Teagan grew up with Anora and Cailin, as well as knowing Alistair and Eideann when they were young, he's in a unique position to consider all three from a different perspective.
> 
> Once again, sorry for the length and all the prose! ~HigheverRains


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Eideann take the courtyard at Fort Drakon and begin their ascent; the darkspawn bring down the Market Gate; Sten rallies a force to his side; Shayle remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.

Who would have known, ever, that Archdemons could call other dragons to them? And yet call them it did, with roars that shook the sky itself, and the dragons came from the hills. 

Small things, nothing like Flemeth or the High Dragon that lived atop the Frostbacks guarding the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Even so, their breath burned and the beat of their wings were strong enough to force the most well-armored soldier from his feet.

There were two of them that landed in the courtyard of Fort Drakon where the darkspawn had decimated the city guardsmen Eideann had insisted needed better training not just a month ago. The dwarven warriors swarmed them, and Alistair felt the crawling sensation of magic as Irving and the mages set to work. Ice spells erupted across the field, which was at least one leg up from what they had had when they fought Flemeth. 

Eideann exchanged a look with him and went hurtling towards the first dragon. And he took the second, confident she could manage alone. His shield battered down the dragon’s head, once, twice, thrice, and his sword struck home, sliding through dragon scales to catch its chest. The beast roared, and Alistair gritted his teeth against the sound as it reverberated through his armor and chest and head. And then he slammed his entire weight behind his shield, and swung with his sword, all of his strength behind the swing, to sever the dragon’s head from its sinewy neck. And beast died in a burst of fire and blood.

He glanced over to the other dragon, which Eideann and Angus and a small company of Templars were battling, and then turned his attention towards the steps of Fort Drakon. 

Generall Fellhammer glanced to the dragon, then looked up at him.

“Well done, boy,” the dwarf said, and Alistair shook his head.

“Not the worst dragon we have to kill today, General,” he reminded him quietly, and then caught the darker tingle of an emissary ahead. Several. He grimaced, then called for Knight-Commander Greagoir who joined him as Eideann brought down the second dragon in a whirlwind of blades. Alistair motioned ahead and grimaced.

“Emissaries. Stronger than I’ve felt anywhere but the Alienage.”

“We will bring them down,” Greagoir told him with quiet confidence. 

There was more than just the emissaries though. He could sense powerful darkspawn as well, and he looked to Eideann who gave him a nod and then set off up the steps. 

“We’ll watch your flank,” he told her, and headed for the first emissary, pointing Greagoir towards the second.

The power of Templar disruption battered the steps even as mage-fire rained down. And Eideann’s blades arced through the air to meet the Hurlock Alpha wielding a vicious looking battle axe.

Alistair forced his attention to his own opponent, a hurlock emissary that gave him a crooked sneer through its pointed teeth in a maw of twisted grey flesh caked with blood-markings and raised its staff. 

He felt the sinister twist of blood magic, which pulled at his heart where he felt Fade magic in his head, and he grimaced, slamming a smite down onto the emissary to knock it down mid-casting. The nature magic was worked, however, and the air was thick with conjured wasps that stung at the faces of his allies and swamped them. Alistair’s next move was to cleanse the spell, banish it away, sending the entire thing shattering into nothingness and leaving the emissary staring at him with cold eyes. 

It met him on the field, staff whirling, capped with jagged darkspawn blades, and he parried the first blow as it landed on his shield. The emissary stepped back with a croak of rage and brought its staff, an arcing crescent like the totems the darkspawn placed in their haunts, up for another spell. Alistair felt the blood pull forth, and have gave a sharp cry as it was summoned through his flesh itself, emerging in a cloud from under his fingernails, through his pores, his eyes and nose and ears and mouth. And he shuddered at the pain of it, crying out sharply, and staggered forward as it erupted into a new spell. 

Somehow, just somehow, he rebuffed that, smothering the emissary with every ounce of his strength, cutting the spell abruptly short and sending his own blood in a rain to the flagstones. And then he lurched forward, ungainly and unwieldy, and his sword pierced the emissary’s heart, sinking all the way through darkspawn flesh until his blade was buried to the hilt. He forced it free with a rough blow of his shield and then staggered back a few steps, breathing hard and gritting his teeth against the pain and the dizziness of blood loss. 

There was a reason blood magic was forbidden, and this was only part of it. He turned his attention then to the other emissary, and the Templars doing battle, and found they were doing poorly. Two of the Templars lay dead, and a mage was now lying in a pool of blood, eyes transfixed, lifeforce drained to throw back at their allies. None of them were as practiced as he at battling darkspawn emissaries. He had months of experience. Duncan’s prediction in the use of his abilities had proven themselves correct over and over again. Those soldiers were better Templars, it was true, but emissaries were not apostates. They were dangerous beasts.

He stepped forward and sent off a smite that cut through their ranks and toppled the emissary. Greagoir’s blade hacked off its head, and the emissary fell. The Knight-Commander looked to him then, panting and concerned. But Alistair had no time for that. Eideann was struggling between them, ducking the wild swings of the battleaxe wielded by the Hurlock Alpha. Alistair joined her fight, and they twisted and turned into their usual dance, until she was inside his guard, and then behind him, and he deflected a glancing blow which left the darkspawn open. His father’s sword found its home in the darkspawn’s heart, and then the Cousland ancestral blade took off the creature’s head in a single swipe that almost had them both off balance. He caught her as the darkspawn fell, pulling her back and out of the way, and she glanced to him, eyes wide. 

“Alright?” he asked, and she gave a curt nod, wiping a smear of blood from her face where the battleaxe had nicked her when she had ducked a tad too slow. He considered it, then motioned with a nod towards Wynne. “Go,” he told her, and she went, while he turned to look at the gates. 

They were massive things carved with the effigies of Emperor Kordilius Drakon himself brandishing spears. The height of twenty men, they stood guardians over the courtyard, though they had yet to prove much help to them yet. He peered at them, then sighed, wondering how, with those spears, they would even be fully opened. And then he decided they never needed to be and it was enough they opened at all.

They stood slightly ajar now, a foreboding warning of what was to come. With such powerful darkspawn out in the courtyard, the inner chambers would be brimming with dangerous members of the horde. And at the top, crippled but more dangerous because of it, the Archdemon itself.

He caught a snarl twisting his lips and forced it away, turning to make sure Eideann was alright.

No matter what the damn woman thought, he was _not_ letting her kill that creature if he could help it. He wanted to believe that the ritual had worked. If it hadn’t…

But if it hadn’t, then it was a death sentence. Eideann Cousland was the Queen Ferelden needed, brilliant and brave and a born leader who rallied others to her cause, himself included. The greatest thing he could do as King would be to save the nation. If that did not secure her throne, he had spoken to Arl Eamon shortly after the Landsmeet, before the battle had begun, before they knew about the Archdemon and the sacrifice. And he had made the man draw up the paperwork to instill Eideann as his successor should he fall. If it was not enough that she had won the Landsmeet herself, if her heroism had not earned their respect, if her own politicking and noble birth did not qualify her, his own word would do so, or should do so at least. He hoped it would be enough.

He could think of no one he would rather leave Ferelden to than her.

He kept the document a secret, kept safe with their things at Soldier’s Peak should the need dictate that it become necessary.

He headed back down the steps to where their forces were fortifying the courtyard and Wynne was tending the injured. The mage looked haggard, and for her age and the spirit that sustained her, he felt guilty at the amount of work she was doing. But her apprentice Petra was assisting, and the girl had a knack for the spells as well. It was Petra who was currently sealing the gash on Eideann’s head with magic and the last of their poultices. Alistair’s own pouch was empty now, and Eideann’s pack on her back had slowly been diminished. If there was anything remaining in there, he did not know what. 

She tore away from Petra at his approach, waving her off to help anyone else, resigned to the fate of going to her death anyway, and rose to meet him. 

“What does it look like ahead?”

“Not good,” he replied, looking at their dwindling party. They still had to fight the Archdemon yet, but they had only a handful of the Templars left, four mages (Wynne, Petra, Irving, and Keeper Lanaya), seven Dalish elves that were sticking as close to their Keeper as possible, and half of the dwarven company they had left the Alienage with. The King’s Army forces were all with Fergus deep in the city reclaiming what had been lost. They were limited in number, and the Fort itself promised to be a mess. 

He looked up at the burning sky, orange clouds of smoke and ash, and grimaced. Even if everyone else was lost in the attempt, he and Eideann had to reach the top.

Leliana and Zevran crossed to join them, eyes dark and fierce.

“Leave the Dalish here to hold the courtyard,” Zevran said simply. “They can manage behind those walls.” He pointed to the courtyard gates and the newly altered fortifications. “With the Keeper here, they’ll mount a fair defense.” 

“That limits our number going forward,” Eideann told him with a sigh, touching her injured head. Leliana, who was sporting a few burns from the dragon, shook her head over creaking leather armor. 

“Even if we took an entire force, numbers would count for nothing in those corridors. A small force will move quicker, and hit harder. We’ll be fighting at close quarters anyway.” 

“True enough, but I was thinking about the roof,” Eideann sighed, shaking her head. Alistair just smiled glumly at her and reached to nudge her lightly. 

“That must be you and I, and you know it,” he said quietly, and she smiled slightly.

“Just our luck we’re climbing towers to defeat the darkspawn again,” she told him, eyes shining. He felt a chuckle escape him, gallows humor until the end, and then nodded.

“I just love Tevinter towers,” he replied with a smile. “I’m still not putting on a dress and dancing the Remigold.” 

“No?” she smiled softly. “I still think it would be a good distraction.” He nodded, and then sighed, looking up to the imposing heights of Fort Drakon. 

“We don’t have much time. I’ll speak to Keeper Lanaya.” And he left her then with Zevran and Leliana. 

Lanaya was healing a Dalish elf who had taken a wound to the shoulder in the last fight, and another who was nursing some nasty burns. Alistair watched her tend to them with elfroot and the same poultices he had seen all his life, and realized they were not so different after all. She did not look up at his approach, but she acknowledged him instead with a small sigh.

“Garas, Grey Warden,” she said softly. “Say what you have to say.” 

“Will you and your soldiers hold the courtyard?” he asked, and she did look up then, eyes weary and sad. 

“Many of my people have been killed this day, Grey Warden, and yet still we stand. So be it. Sahlin suledin. Now we endure.” She rose, staff in hand, and considered him. “Stay alive if you can, Grey King.” And then she drew away from him, sending her treated archer to the others to tell them of their duty. 

Alistair had not forgotten the debt they owed the Dalish for the lives they had paid so far. They had saved so many and paid so much in blood. When this was done, he and Eideann would give them their own homeland, carved from Ferelden. Let that be enough. 

He thought of the ruins in the Brecilian Forest, not quite Tevinter, ancient elven, and sighed before considering Fort Drakon above him. 

Eideann was waiting at the foot of the tower, and their group was slowly assembling as well.

“Ready?” she asked as he considered her, and he gave a nod after one final glance to those who would be coming with them. 

“Ready,” he told her, and turned at last to the doors of Fort Drakon, imposing metal and Tevinter pride set in effigy. And then he took the first step forward, leading their armies in.

***

Eideann’s footsteps were too loud on the flagstones of Fort Drakon as she stepped around the bodies that were strewn across the floor, all that was left now of the Denerim guardsmen stationed in the city. She grimaced, considering the bloodsplattered walls, and focusing on the sensation of darkspawn ahead. She knew there was one close by, and many more on the floors beyond. If she had been hoping for an easy run up the tower that was unlikely. The Archdemon had summoned its defenders to guard the way. 

There was only one bright spot in it all, and that was Loghain. She thanked him in silence for having the audacity to arrest them. It gave them their only advantage: knowledge of the floorplan.

She led them, solemn, through the chambers, past the untouched Captain’s office, past the burning pews within the Fort Chantry where Sisters lay dead like all the rest. Behind her, Leliana murmured a prayer for their souls. The main chamber was the defensible warehouse that held siege equipment. Eideann stepped in warily, sensing that the darkspawn was up ahead, and she could tell from the Blightsong in her head that it was another powerful one. Alistair put out his hand to stop her. Emissary then. She had learned by now to let him lead when it came to such things.

He crept carefully along the floor, motioning to Knight-Commander Greagoir and the remaining Templars, which spread out as they crossed the floor. Eideann walked with Petra and Wynne and Irving behind them, eyes narrowed. 

There was a great roar, a sound like some maw opening to swallow them up, and Irving gave a curse.

“The Veil,” Petra said quietly, voice angry. And then Eideann saw the darkspawn emissary ahead. It wove its magic from blood and despair, weakening the veil and calling forth a roomful of shades to contend with. Eideann twisted her swords to adjust her grip and then dove for the first one as magefire erupted behind her. She felt the shuddering force of Templar smites and left that end of the hall to Alistair and the other Templars, handling the demons herself. At least demons died like anyone else in this world. Whether they actually died in the Fade, she had no idea. 

They cleared the path as Alistair’s blade finished off the emissary, and then moved onward, now in two groups because of the distance between them. The Templars moved ahead, and the rest behind, cautious.

And for good reason. The rest of the corridors were filled with the remains of the emissary’s spellcasting. Here, the dead guardsmen that filled the tower, rose and walked against them. Standard issue swords met the glowing blades enchanted by Dagna and Sandal to kill Archdemons, and they fell before them. 

Eideann tried not to remember that they had been men and women she had spoken to. She tried not to see their faces, rotted with decay and death, reanimated by foul magic. She focused instead on her own swords, and what lay ahead. 

She had told them they needed a real review, better training and defense. She had said as much to Alistair. This was the result of course, entirely foreseeable. But what could she do about it now?

Only rebuild. Those lives would never return.

She could feel that Nothing high above that was Urthemiel, and she stealed her heart. She had no other choice. She was the one who would meet the Archdemon. She had to be brave.

But Maker, she had fought her way through too many massacred fortresses in the past year. It left her hollow inside. 

She thought of the child within her and bit her lip as she took the lefthand path as the Templars and some of the dwarves fanned out to clear the other rooms of any more lingering undead. Best that nothing be given the opportunity to follow them up. 

She opened the storage room door where she and Alistair had met the raw recruits during their escape, and was stopped in her track.

“Maker’s breath,” she heard someone behind her, perhaps Wynne. The floor was strewn with darkspawn, every inch of the chamber covered with hurlocks and genlocks, emissaries, and even a pair of ogres. And at its center before the stairs stood Sandal.

Eideann stared at him a moment, then looked about again.

“Dear Maker,” she sighed, shaking her head, and then crossing the trap of bodies to Sandal who was grinning at her ear to ear. 

“Enchantment?” he asked at her approach, and she stopped before him. 

“You are surrounded by darkspawn corpses,” she said flatly. “What happened here?” He just grinned wider.

“Enchantment!” She looked back then sighed, and sank down on the steps to wait for the others to catch up.

Their reaction was much the same when they finally did arrive. Alistair took one look at the number of corpses, then grimaced and stared at Sandal a moment. Everyone else presumed it had somehow been her work, or that of the mages, so Eideann let that be since Sandal did not seem the sort to endure endless prodding with questions he could not even answer.

He was quiet happily barking at Angus who was barking back like they were involved in some sort of conversation. Eideann let them be. Angus barely had fun anymore, what with so many months – Maker, a year really – of battling the Blight. The dog’s tail was beating against the floor merrily, and who was she to gainsay that? 

Sandal produced a small pouch of healing poultices and a couple vials of lyrium.

“Did Bodahn send these?” Eideann asked, and Sandal just smiled and said nothing. Instead he pressed the pouch into her hands and wandered off back into the first floor. At least with it clear he would not be in danger, unless the rest of the horde battered down the outside gates. There really was not time to sit and chat. 

Eideann passed the healing poultices around to those who looked like they most needed it, and gave the lyrium to the Templars at Irving’s insistence. They had done so much for them thus far, and a few of them were looking worse for wear like they were in the early stages of lyrium withdrawal. She thought of Irminric and hoped he was safe somewhere. But he was Knight-Lieutenant of the Denerim Chantry, and the Denerim Chantry had been fired. If he had made it out, where would he go? 

She tried not to think on it. Instead she focused on the stairs above, scanning her companions.

“We don’t know the layouts of the floors above,” she explained quietly. “Anything can be up there, and from what I can feel, there are a lot of things up there. We will be fighting our way all the way to the top. But when we get there, the Archdemon must die either by my hand or Alistair’s. If anyone else kills it, the creature will change forms and become a stronger beast in a new body. That cannot be allowed to happen.” 

“Then how do we help you up there?” General Fellhammer asked seriously.

“It has called its armies forth, and those armies will converge. We cannot fight the Archdemon and those armies at the same time,” she said quietly with a nervous look to Alistair who nodded.

“Then we shall keep them away from you,” Irving said. 

“If you find an opportunity to attack the Archdemon, do so, but be wary. It _must_ be killed by a Grey Warden.” She wondered for a moment if Angus counted. Then she shook her head. “ In the chambers above there are at least five strong darkspawn, and a number of the general infantry of the horde. Expect a few ogres maybe, more emissaries. The Archdemon is on defense now. It’s frightened, and Riordan has wounded it so it cannot fly. We will never get a better chance at this than we have now. But it knows that too and it has summoned the entire horde here in its defense. The horde can be rebuilt, but the Archdemon is where it ends. They know it as well as we, and from here on out they will die on our swords knowing their lives mean nothing. Try not to wear yourselves out. Fight smart, not fierce. We have to have the energy left to finish it.”

“So be it,” Knight-Commander Greagoir said grimly. “Lead on, your Majesties.” Eideann nodded, then turned and drew a breath before climbing the steps to the second level where the darkspawn were waiting.

***

She had not seen so much fire since they had torched the Alienage in the Uprising, and that had been contained by the stone city walls. Above them, the sky burned orange and black with fire, though night was falling, and that made the clouds above sinister and dark and crueler. The sounds of screams still rang in her ears. She was no fighter. She was not made for war.

All the same she tightened her hand about her makeshift bow and tucked her red hair back from her face, considering the path before her. Backstreets and backways. That was the only way to go now. 

The explosions from the Archdemon had shattered the city walls, sending the reinforcements of the horde into the Gate District which had become a battlefield that ran red with blood. An ogre was hammering now at the Market Gate, held only by a small force that was besieged by the darkspawn that pressed to overwhelm them. 

The portcullis was down, bent but holding fast for the moment, even though the structures themselves were suffering significant damage from the onslaught. Those ogres, massive beasts that they were, charged with horns lowered like rams, battering at the doors. There was nothing of the Market District left to save, except a few of the external estates, ringed in stone, and Arl Eamon’s estate where they had gathered behind the other portcullis. When the Market Gate fell, it would be their final stand. 

There were too many wounded gathered in their field hospital. Once the bridges had fallen, those south of the city had been cut off, but they were bringing new patients right until the exterior walls had collapsed. What mages they had were healers here, not battlemages. They had little proficiency with destruction or chaos.

And she was afraid, because she did not know how they would ever stand against such a force as came at them now. With their forces on the field decimated, the walls fallen, the darkspawn were an endless torrent, and still the Archdemon lived. 

What if the Grey Wardens were dead? What if they had failed?

_Then you will die here, Shianni, with everyone else, and the city will be razed to the ground._

It had happened in every other Blight. She knew enough of history to know that. At least four cities had been sacked before Garahel had killed Andoral at Ayesleigh. And that was when the Grey Wardens still had griffons. 

Shianni could feel her heart pounding, had never been so frightened in her life. She was no fighter. She had no training. Her aunt, Adaia, had tried to teach both her and Soris to shoot a bow, and their cousin Kallien too, but then Adaia had been killed for her skills by shems who were afraid of elves, and Uncle Cyrion had banned them all from practicing. Would that it had been different. Kallien had not forsaken those skills, all she had left of her mother. 

She had died before the Uprising, hung for the slaughter of half the Arl of Denerim’s house. She had brought down half the guardsmen before they had captured her, that foolishly brave cousin of hers. Maker, Kallien had been trying to save her. To save them all. 

It had cost her her life to try. 

Perhaps this would cost Shianni her own. 

She stood atop the portcullis, looking west with grim eyes, and Soris stood beside her, nervous as she was.

“What if they reach us?” he asked after a moment. She gave him a sharp look, angry and bitter.

“Then we die,” she told him. There was a resounding crash and the Market Gate fell, metal twisting and contorting as the ogre came through, ripping the supports from the towers that held the gate and toppling the rubble to the cobbles. Their defenses fell, and the darkspawn swarmed. Shianni nocked an arrow. “But I’m going to die fighting.” And she fired.

 

***

For a moment there was only light, a blindingly bright light that made him dizzy. But he was Ashkaari, and would not fall. 

The dragon had wheeled overhead, bringing down the walls, and darkspawn flooded past them into the city, raging towards the gates. One by one the soldiers around him fell. 

Blood splattered across his boots, stinging on his skin. He wished for Vitaar but there was none to be had in this backwards country that smelled of dog and rotting filth. All the same he would perservere. He would go on. He had to.

He would fight until his dying breath. It was his purpose. He had been born to die by the sword.

He let out a warcry, Qunlat fluid on his tongue, and charged, Asala held high. His soul cut down a line of hurlocks that raced towards him. And then he whirled and brought down a group of genlocks in a single swing. Rage was upon him, dark and desperate, the bloodloss from his wounds driving him into madness. 

Something stirred within his blood.

Ancient Ataashi. 

The Ben-Hassrath said the Tamassrans once bred the Qunari with the blood of dragons to make them fierce and glorious. It was an old wife’s tale. Foolishness. But in that moment he felt something between himself and that Archdemon, that made his soul sing and his heart ache to be bigger, larger, more destructive. The chaos that the Qun drove back rose within him there once more, and he let it loose upon the field, calling to the skies.

And they followed. One by one the soldiers about him, human, elf, and dwarf. They rose, weapons in their hands to stand against the tide, until they were ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred strong, a new vanguard, a new Beresaad. 

And they charged deep into the heart of the darkspawn that were racing to the Market Gate. 

Sten could sense their bravery then, the purpose in their souls. Asala fed on the blood of monsters as he raged through the ranks and sent the darkspawn scattering in pieces. Beside him, human warriors roared, battlecries he did not understand. All languages were lost in the fog of war. 

And they fought too, and bled, and died, there on the fields of blood and fire. And this…this…was the answer he would bring to the Arishok. 

What is the Blight? 

Desperation. Determination. Ferocity. Darkness. A true battle of souls. 

He cut the legs out from under an ogre, sending it facefirst into the earth, and drove his sword through its skull feeling the ferocity of battle. He called to the other warriors that had gathered to him, orders in Qunari, yet somehow they understood, and they pierced the heart of the wave at the Market Gate, until finally they stood amidst the rubble, defenders fierce and proud.

These bas were no fools, but as strong as any Viddathari. In war, all knew their purpose. All were equal in death.

They were brave, these humans, these elves, these dwarves. They were ferocious and dangerous and strong. 

And he smiled.

Var-toh katashok, ebadim maraas issala toh.

***

The little squishy things were dying, smeared on rocks and cobblestones, splattered like bugs after someone stepped on them. 

Shayle reached casually to dig up another stone and cast it far and long into the horde, squashing a good few more. It rolled, and she felt a tingle of glee at the result. And then she reached for another, mind set and cold.

A golem would not die.

For a thousand years she had stood and watched over the gates in the deep, or so they would have her believe. It rang true, parts of it, and Caradin himself had given her reason to pause and consider. 

Shayle of House Cadash.

She had promised long ago to hold the gates against the darkspawn. Yet here they were. Foolish flesh creatures, never any good at keeping their footing in explosions, vulnerable to fire that melted the flesh from their bones. Vulnerable to rubble that buried them.

She found a hand and shifted another rock, heaving it into the column again and earning a few more shrieks from the nasty darkspawn. And under it was the redhaired dwarf, the one who belched and farted and did other disgusting things with its body. It groaned, the nasty drunken dwarf.

“Would the drunken dwarf like to get up now?” she asked curtly as he carefully pushed himself to his knees, groaning in pain at being squashed by tons of stone. “The darkspawn are invading.” 

“Sod it!” it cursed, as was its wont, and Shayle stepped back as it reached with injured arms for the battleaxe that lay amidst the stones. “Blighters! We’ll fucking kill them!” 

“Ah. It is not physically weak. Or entirely inept. In combat,” Shayle muttered, reaching to throw another stone. 

“You looking to borrow money or something,” the drunken dwarf grumbled, then made a face at the state of the battle and climbed to its feet. It limped a few steps, then peered about. “Where are the sodding mages?” 

“I am not interested in where the mages are.”

“I am here, dwarf, though I hardly believe my talents will be of much use now.” The Swamp Witch. Shayle turned to stare at it with disdain.

“Ah, the Swamp Witch yet lives.” 

“Ah, the golem yet lives,” the Swamp Witch replied, and then considered the wall. “Dwarf, stand back and make sure no darkspawn try to kill me.” The drunken dwarf gave a grumble and then stalked around to guard the Swamp Witch. Shayle grudgingly did the same. The Swamp Witch raised is arms, summoning enough magic to make Shayle’s augmentation crystals glow bright and sharp against the bloodied sky. And then the wall began to shift, rubble piling high into some semblance of a structure, blocking off the incoming horde and burying some darkspawn into the wall itself.

Then Shayle turned back.

The remains of the dwarven force stood before her now as the darkspawn came at the main gate. It bent under the pressure, creaking with the strain. 

It made Shayle think for a moment of a different time, a different place. How many times had she stood at the gates as the darkspawn tried to hammer them down. 

And suddenly she was back there, for the briefest of instants, armed with a battleaxe of fine gold, stepping forward, deadly and quiet.

“Caridin, I volunteer.” 

And there was heat and pain, so much pain, the burn of lyrium, worse than the lava forges, until she screamed and screamed and screamed into nothing. 

And then she was at the gates of Denerim, and her crystals were glowing brighter than ever before, making her a beacon in the darkness. About her the dwarven army massed, leaderless but following, like dwarves always did. Standing before the gates where the darkspawn must now come through as they bent and yawned and pocked with each onslaught. Shayle stared at the warped metal, sealed by the Swamp Witch’s magic once before, now prying free of its hinges, and raised her arms.

Great stone limbs settled against the metal, and then the crystals flared. Lightning erupted through the metal, supercharged, and screams on the other side showed the effect. The scent of roasting flesh filled the air, or perhaps she was remembering something else…golems could not smell.

And then she was back in the depths of memory, waiting in the darkness listening to the sounds of water, the trickle of rain, the soft call of birdsong. 

Home in the darkness. Home in the Void. 

An eternity of waiting for anyone to come. For anyone to see. 

Another flare of lightning shot through the gates and she gave a cackle, pulling back. Behind her, the dwarves had aligned, all that were left, gathered in ranks to face down the darkspawn, proud and unbroken for all their numbers were now few. And Shayle thought of fighting in the deep, far beneath the earth, in the Thaigs now lost, now fallen. 

Some where memories it recalled with the Grey Wardens and the drunken dwarf. Bownammar and Caridin’s Cross. But others were older, things left forgotten, now stirring deep in the depths. Others were the hammer of dwarven gates, and the clash of dwarven steel. Some were so old…

She had seen Archdemons before. Tortured, twisted dragons that roiled in the belly of the earth. She had seen the colored flames burn across the dwarven empire. 

She remembered. 

Lightning flared again, arcing across the gates, and then they burst. But the dwarves rallied. Just as they had in the days of old, fighting to the last blood as Thaig by Thaig fell. 

And Shayle fought with them, the drunken dwarf at her side, and felt a surge of pride for the fleshy creatures that had driven themselves into this final fight against all common sense. For they were dwarves, yes even she once, and they would not falter. By the glory of all the ancestors, they would never fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some creative license taken here, but I wanted to get these different perspectives in. I took some liberty with Shayle's memories, but I think it turned out okay.
> 
> Translations for those interested:  
> Garas - come
> 
> Sahlin suledin. - best approximation "now we endure" (I am not in any way an expert on ancient elvish, it's just the best I could do with the resources online. Comes from Sahlin - now; suledin - endure. I couldn't find any grammatical information, so it's close enough)
> 
> Var-toh katashok, ebadim maraas issala toh. - "They will struggle and we will turn them into nothing."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Wardens battle the Archdemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.

The first time they had met, they were climbing a tower much like this one, full of Tevinter architecture and the worst of the world. She could feel the Veil was thin there, and the Spirit of Faith within her pushed her gently onward, but she ignored it, forcing herself to focus on the here. The now. Every flight of steps would lead to a new battle, every corner a potential for ambush, and she was no Grey Warden. She could not sense them coming.

She believed in the Chantry, the version they said. Whether they were true or not did not matter to her. Allegory was as powerful as truth in this case. The darkness of mankind had done so much evil in the world, and the darkspawn were evil incarnate. The beast that led them, the Archdemon Old God, had killed so many, led this force so far. 

She had an obligation to see this through, even if she died in trying. 

Eideann Cousland had surprised her from the moment they first met. She had taken it all in, every piece of information, and then made a decision faster than wildfire spread.

“I am here. And I will help you,” the girl had said, fierce and strong. And that Eideann had never changed. She had never wavered. Even now, when she climbed the tower to battle the Archdemon herself, Wynne could imagine her saying the same thing to anyone they might yet meet. “I am here. And I will help you.” And if anyone could, it was her.

She had had her doubts, certainly. She had never before seen a young noble who had not been an arrogant or self-serving sort. They demanded lands and fealty from people they ignored save when it served their purpose, and they thought only of themselves. For a little time, she had thought perhaps Eideann was like that as well, driven by vengeance and determined to get whatever she wanted. She had seen it in the way that Eideann and Alistair had drawn together too. And yet, through it all, Eideann had proven time and again how selfless she could be. What small things she took for herself were simply the things anyone needed to survive. When the entire world demanded the price of her very life from her, she answered, walking willfully into the flames, so that everyone else could be free.

No, this was no noble brat, raised to believe she was special. Eideann Cousland was raised to believe she must serve, and serve she did. In everything, all the time, in every way she could.

This was a Grey Warden, this bravery, this sacrifice. This was the hero the tales spoke of. The Grey Wardens stood before the armies of the Archdemon, between them and the King’s men.

Yes, lives had been lost, but each one had cut through Eideann like a knife. She knew with a cold finality that there was a reckoning to be had above that tower. And she went to meet it, regardless of the cost.

Alistair was different story, thrust into power where Eideann walked willingly. Alistair burned with her because Alistair had never made his own choices. Except he was making them now, leading an army, commanding the Templars, walking side by side with Eideann into the flames. 

And Wynne wished again that her own son was like him, that Rhys had that bravery.

But then of course he would. After all she was there. And so was his father. 

Her eyes skimmed to Greagoir ahead and she felt a wash of sadness, for days long lost and choices irrefutably made. And she let it rest then, the silence of old memories and regrets, buried in a shallow grave and coated with a dusting of small flowers. She had made her peace. 

Beside her, Petra was weary, and Wynne let a wash of rejuvenation shower over the girl, who smiled slightly. She remembered Petra, so long ago now, pigtails and wide smiles trying not to set the carpets alight. Ah…for all she may have lost her son, here she had found her other children. Apprentices of the Circle she defended with her life. She had given it once to safeguard those she taught.

She looked ahead to Eideann and Alistair and knew she would do it again. That she may have to.

Fort Drakon was not solely inhabited by darkspawn. The emissaries had called forth spirits from beyond the Veil by tearing it asunder, leaving it in tatters that let the spirits come in freely. They had taken on the forms of dead soldiers, stealing their bodies and making them walk again, perverse and horrible. Wynne’s spirit magic forced them back, and Petra was proficient enough at the spells as well now. It was Irving, Wynne and Petra against the might of the demons pressing at the edges of the Veil, and they had to be strong now. For all their sakes. 

There was a comfort in knowing the Templars walked with them. Old hurts had always stood between them, but in a Blight, people came together in ways they could not before. The Knight-Commander was standing with them, the Templars walking side by side, and they were together, there to protect the world. 

It was a start. It was something. They were not so different. Their common enemy united them as never before. 

So much distrust and harm between them. Uldred had opened rifts long since made by the system itself. The devastation at the Tower had left a great many raw wounds to heal. The Templar Knight they had saved, Ser Cullen, was only one of many who would bear the scars of that horrible experience forward into the future. For magic truly _was_ dangerous. Mages and Templars alike were both monsters. 

But they were both people too.

She could feel the hum of the Fade, closer than ever before, almost hear the toxic song of lyrium in her veins. It felt like life, bursting through her, and the Spirit of Faith resonated with it, until the entire world felt like it was vibrating on the same frequency, stirring, breathing almost. 

The Templars believed that lyrium was the building block of the world, the Maker’s own bricks and mortar. Perhaps this was true. She did not know. But for a time, she was set in her purpose and she truly believed that she would rather be nowhere else than there. 

She thought of all her long years had given her: love, loss, regret, peace, wisdom, humility, pride, determination, a home, a cage, a way to move forward. All of it was hers, a lifetime of memories stored away safe within her heart.

When this was done, where would she go? What would she do? She had spoken to Greagoir and Irving that final night at Soldier’s Peak, laid down her case to them both to cast her free into the world where she might do some good. And they had agreed. Now the entire world was at her disposal, her freedom laid before her, earned for a lifetime of servitude. What would she do with it? Where would she go?

There would be so much of the world to see.

And Rhys…she could finally see Rhys. The thought made her smile, and it also made her sad. How old would her dear boy be now? His own life, his own dreams, trapped in the White Spire deep in Orlais. In her mind, he was still a babe in her arms, wrapped in clean white wool, soft and warm and a little sticky the way all babies were. 

Lost children. She blinked away the memories.

Maker, so many pieces left sundered. It was not possible in a single lifetime to affix all the pieces together.

She thought of Eideann Cousland again, the fire that burned in her eyes, and knew that in the end those little pieces did not matter. Others always stood forward to carry the flames that were important further on into the future beyond their own lifetimes. What she had given in that past year, Eideann would bear forth, Alistair would carry, all the apprentices and the lives she had touched. Each and every one had a legacy of their own, a destiny to fulfill.

For the first time in a long time she felt well and truly tired.

 _I will not leave this unfinished,_ she thought to herself, quiet and determined, a wiry thread of perseverance amidst all the tiring twists of fate. _Is this why you saved me?_

And in the end even that did not matter.

 _We do only what we can, no more and no less. And in the end, that is enough._

***

She had come because the Maker had told her to, to stand on the edge of the abyss and look down into the darkness, to take that leap when the time came. And now she was here, doing just that, only she was climbing instead of falling, higher and higher into the depths of a charred and burning night sky covered in clouds. And all around her the darkspawn threatened to destroy the Maker’s world. 

She had come to the Chantry in her time of need, desperate for repentance, hungry for acceptance, shaped by grief and loss. It had cost her everything to cast Orlais aside, to seek a new way. But they were all the Maker’s children, and the darkspawn threatened the Maker’s world. 

She had once sung songs in the courts of Orlais, thinking herself a talent and a joy. She remembered old faces from that time, the smiles behind the masks, the intrigue of the Game, and still she loved it, still she longed to tangle in those evenings of debauchery and moral destitution. But she knew as well that there were bigger things than the Game.

This was such a thing.

In the years since Marjolaine, after Lady Cecilie’s illness had wasted her to nothing and Leliana had been left to play the Game or die, or die playing the Game itself, she had learned so many lessons. She had opened her heart to the beauty of the world, the joy in the simple hearts of men, and she had let it bring her peace. 

But that dark part of her was still there, waiting, her own taint to carry through for the Maker to see. And she had struggled against it for so long, it felt strange to be comfortable again in her own skin.

For what world was it where the Maker demanded and controlled all? What world was it where their choices did not matter.

Eideann had been right. She could choose who she wished to be. And who she wished to be was Leliana, nothing more and nothing less. She was not Marjolaine, and she was not Mother Dorothea. She was herself, now and always.

The bow in her hands was the very same that Marjolaine had used to finish off the deer in the woodlands on their hunting trip all those years ago. Its wood was the same, its feel the same, the scent of its lacquer still the same. But now she carried it forward.

In those days she had seen Marjolaine as a power to aspire too. She had reached high because Marjolaine had seemed so high herself. She had seen the killing of that deer as an exercise of power, dominion of one creature over another, and to her then this bow was just that: power. 

But now she knew better. Killing that deer was a mercy, wounded as it was. This bow was mercy incarnate in her hands. She would have to bring the Maker’s mercy to the world.

The skills she had did not demand she follow the path of darkness. Indeed she had seen herself, following Eideann, how those skills could serve the side of righteousness. Her abilities gave her the advantage to outmaneuver those that would do them harm.

When finally she had seen Marjolaine, she had not seen the powerful bardmaster that had commanded the loyalty of hundreds, or dabbled in treason and blood. She had seen a sad, paranoid woman, determined to drive herself into destruction. And when her blood was spilled and those beautiful eyes dimmed forever, the love between them was gone at last, and she did not feel the power of dominion over life. She had felt the strength of mercy, for Marjolaine and for her. 

Not all killing was a mercy, that much she knew. But sometimes it was, and it had been Eideann to show her as much. It had taken Connor to convince her of that, to see that death was never an end, only the next leg of a journey to the Maker’s side. And she did not believe what the Chantry believed, that the Maker was gone and did not care. He was there, in everything, all around them. His touch shaped the world.

How else could she explain the rose in the courtyard she had seen Alistair pick, which now lay in Eideann’s pack, petals carried forward into the heart of the Blight itself? How could she explain the light that shone from her friends as they pushed onward to end the Blight? 

There was too much goodness in the world for the Maker to be gone. She knew that much, in her heart, and let the Chantry despair of her blasphemy. The Maker was there. He watched. And he smiled on them. 

She did not believe anymore she was chosen. She just believed she was a child of the Maker like everyone else. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had tried to make her doubt, but she knew that it was not the place of others to tell her what to believe of herself. Those dreams had sent her to Alistair and Eideann, to battle the Blight and do what was right, and those dreams had come from somewhere. If the Maker was watching, if he looked out for them all, they could not fail.

Eideann was the torch that carried the flame through the night, Alistair her constant protector and lieutenant, ever at her side. She had heard the stories of how they had climbed the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon once before. Now they carried that flame to the top of another tower, a beacon to all the world. 

“Come,” it called to all of Thedas, “see what Ferelden blood can do.”

Andraste’s Ferelden blood had brought the Maker to them once, the songs in her heart calling to him. Those songs still called, echoed in the Chant of Light, and all songs ever sung, for Andraste’s first songs were not the Chant but simple melodies of birds and flowers, of her homeland there amidst the Alamarri, whose blood had stood against proud Tevinter and the Old Gods for a thousand years.

Oh yes, she was proud to be there. That strength that had decimated Tevinter held strong and fast now in Ferelden’s final stand at Denerim where Andraste herself was born. Those songs had brought them this far, and she had spread her song for Eideann far and wide by now. Even peasants in Orlais would have heard snatches of it. Legends never died.

She was afraid, climbing those steps, making their way through that tower. She knew full well that there would be no relief at the top. Part of her wanted to run. But she would not. She had a duty now, same as them all, to face down that demon for the sake of all Thedas, and she had made a promise to herself to follow Eideann, who had spoken the words when she needed them most:

“Believe whatever feels right to you. Marjolaine chose who she became, and so can you.” And then in her grief she had sent her home into the Maker’s arms, and it had saved her soul.

No, she was proud to be among that number, and she would not let anything happen to Alistair or Eideann. She had precious few friends in the world. She could count them on one hand. But that past year had given her light when the entire world had been darkness. And she had never been more certain of her path in her life.

 _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide…_.

***

Eideann was tired, so tired. And yet with each step she forced herself onward, fueled by necessity alone as she walked the long walk to her gallows. Behind her, the remnants of the Circle, General Fellhammer’s significantly diminished force, and her own party: a spy, an assassin, a possessed spirit healer, her faithful dog, and the man she loved more than anything in the world. 

Maker. This was the vanguard of hope. 

And she at its head, Drowner of Cities, Murderer of Children, Seizer of Thrones. 

She climbed the steps to the next floor, eyes dark and determined.

They found the dining hall, and the kitchens, where fires still burned low in the hearths. How long had the defense of Denerim stood before they arrived? Maker, she hoped some had survived. She had made the choice to come as soon as she could, but even so she had left the city to other defenders. Her duty lay elsewhere, up, higher.

 _A Cousland always does their duty first._

She could sense the genlocks that emerged as if from the walls themselves, ghosting like shriek into their midst, and she cut them down because she had to, hardly without thinking. It no longer seemed strange to her to feel their presence, and nor did it perturb her when they appeared. She had seen far worse in Bownammar than darkspawn genlocks and shrieks. She had seen a nightmare there. Nothing could frighten her now, except perhaps the Archdemon itself. 

They found a room filled to the brim with genlock archers that were lined against them, and only Alistair’s shield and quick thinking had saved them. She had even blocked one of the arrows wiith her blades. Leliana and Zevran peppered the beasts with arrows, and the mages set to raging, turning the hall into a blizzard that filled with ice and froze the creatures solid. The Templars smashed them to frozen bits, letting the blood ice over into pools on the floor, and Eideann turned her face away from it. Too much blood. She had seen her fill. 

There was no time. 

The tower was dimly lit, a fortress of empty barracks, half-filled armories, and storage chambers for all manner of siege equipment. And there were chambers where the King’s Army commanders slept, where once Emperor Drakon himself have stayed in those halls before the Royal Palace had been built. The Royal Palace was in flames now. 

Eideann paused a moment to wonder if Anora had survived the onslaught. And then she decided for the time being she did not care. Alistair was going to survive. She had decided that a long time ago. All the preparations were made. 

Corridor by corridor, chamber by chamber, staircase by staircase they cleared the tower, leaving only death and destruction in their wake so that none could follow, none could stop them prematurely from the dark deed they had to do.

And then it was too much. She called a halt, ducking into a small, defensible room to rest a moment. Wynne’s power trickled over them, a gentle stream of healing for wounds inflicted. Eideann was thankful for her Warden armor. If she had worn anything different she’d be cut to ribbons. As it was she still had the ache in her head from the gash she had taken fighting the dragon, and a variety of cuts and bruises across the rest of her body, and a wrenched arm from a tussle with a genlock assassin. Zevran had saved her life again in those moments, spearing the creature through the head with a thrown knife and firing a quick succession of shots into its throat until it fell still. 

Their troop was a mess, battered and broken, half too old to be there really. Eideann hoped that Lanaya and her Dalish warriors held the courtyard. She could feel more darkspawn massing far below. Eight Dalish against a horde? Maker, they would all die if she did not end this soon.

They sat only a little while, trying to regain their strength, as Wynne and Petra washed wave after wave of healing and creation spells over them. And then finally Eideann spoke.

“No one need go any further. Anyone who wants to stop here - ”

Zevran barked a laugh.

“Ah, _Bella_ ,” he said, voice soft and kind. “If we leave you now, it will be to die, and for no other reason.” And he spoke for them all, by the grim nods and steady looks she received from them. And then Eideann pushed herself up, turnring her back on them, and considering the doors ahead. 

Alistair’s fingers crept into her own, and they stood a moment, staring forward, standing against the destiny that waited.

“Thank you,” she told him, voice quiet. His eyes slid to hers, molten gold in the lamplight, and he met her gaze and held it. And then he guided her into a kiss, sweet and passionate and full with all of his love, and need, and desire, and fears. She tasted them all, felt them all echoing back within herself. 

The armies would remember their kiss at the gate, with all its applause and cheers. But this was the one she sealed away in her heart, Angus curled about their legs, everything they were in those heartfelt moments between heartbeats. This was for her alone, she would not share it with anyone but him.

And finally when she pulled away, she blinked away threatening tears and drew her blades again.

“Onward,” she breathed, and he turned with her, Duncan’s blade ringing from its sheath. Together they charged the doors.

Two ogres and an emissary lay in the room beyond. Alistair and Eideann each went for the ogres, as the Knight-Commander and his Templars smited the emissary down. Maps and knick-nacks scattered from the long tables as they brought the beasts down, almost as one, a synchronized dance that showed how far they really had come since the Tower of Ishal where a single ogre had almost bested them. Ogres at the top of a tower. The irony hurt. Eideann almost laughed, but then she would have cried. So instead she pressed on, cutting through the Templars and ending the emissary with a swing of Maric’s sword.

And then, finally, they mounted the last steps. 

“Ready?” she heard Alistair ask. And she just nodded and took the flight up to the roof. To the end.

***

Urthemiel was every bit the beast that haunted her nightmares and sought her out in dreams and darkness. It was the Void, the Nothing she remembered, washing over her like the tide threatening to pull her away from her own existence. She was shaking, she realized and willed her hands steady as it trampled down the last of the guardsmen that had stood atop the roof bravely. She recognized the Corporal she had spoken to during their escape and then looked up the creature that made this a Blight. 

Whatever the Old God once had been, and whatever it was that Morrigan was trying to save, was a far cry from the Archdemon before them. It twisted its sinuous neck, eyeing them through one dark eye, and then roared, purple flames so hot spewing forth to melt the flagstones. 

Alone they faced the beast.

Eideann tightened her grip on the sword, and moved, unthinking, as her party split across the rooftops, breaking up their target. About them, massive braziers stood atop platforms of stone, pouring more smoke into the sky, and the skeletal towers of Tevinter construction rose above them imposing and cold.

And then suddenly they were not alone. Their short delay and the clearing of Fort Drakon below had given their some of their allies the chance to join them. It was the dwarves that reached them first, sweeping up with General Fellhammer towards the beast with roars in the dwarven tongue, thirsting for Archdemon blood in payment for all that had been lost to them. Eideann caught sight of some of the last Legionnaires among them, and she knew why they were there. After then came a handful of the King’s Army, men with Redcliffe shields, though most had gone with Teagan into the ciy to save those who could be saved. And the Dalish, Lanaya and her now-six warriors joined them with a hatred in their eyes, a determination to bring the creature down.

Eideann took the distraction as an opportunity. For whatever reason, the top of Fort Drakon was armed with ballistas. She ran for one as fast as she could, darting up the Tevinter steps and slamming into it with all her might. Fort Drakon had been built to battle the Blights. Those ballistas were old, but dwarven make, and they would fire still. They were meant for dragons and darkspawn.

Alistair hit the ballista beside her, both of them straining to turn it inward, and then it creaked on rusted cogs and swung about. Eideann slammed the bolt within home, sending it ricocheting across the roof, and spearing Urthemiel full on the side, even as several dwarven warriors fell to the swing of its tail.

But it was foolish to believe, even with Riordan’s work, that the creature could not still fly a little. Urthemiel rose up into the sky, blotted out by smoke and orange clouds of night, and roared its piercing roar, the force from its wings knocking them from their feet and sending Angus beside them skidding across the floor. Eideann gave a cry, twisting to avoid the fall, and Alistair fell atop her, then picked his head up instantly to find where the creature had gone. 

It landed on the opposite side of the flagstones of the roof, whirling fire and nightmares. Its roar had brought the darkspawn too, and Eideann forced herself up as they descended upon them, shrieking and roaring, the final fight of desperate creatures driven only be blood and the Song. 

Duty found a hurlock’s neck, and King’s Justice severed it. She kicked the darkspawn away from her and dove into the fray, trying desperately to cut a path through to Urthemiel. The dwarves joined her, hacking and slashing, and magefire rained down, Petra’s doing, even as ice shards formed across the flagstones as Irving set the place to storms. The First Enchanter called lightning itself from the air to strike across the roof, scattering through the darkspawn ranks and raking them apart. The flagstones rose up to meet them, Wynne’s earth magic tearing them apart and sending them hurtling through the horde, knocking a few from the roof. Lanaya’s magic was a darker sort, colored in the tones of the earth and ancient Arlathan as it swept through darkspawn like thunder and rain and pestilence. And Eideann turned her sights to Urthemiel, roaring above it all.

But as many as the darkspawn fell, more came. And her people were dying in the meantime. They were outnumbered there on that roof. Only Urthemiel’s death would save those lives.

And the Archdemon knew it, the Blightsong in her head was a mass of whispers she should understand but could not. The Archdemon retreated from the horde, leaving them to be overrun by its minions as it rose into the air again and settled atop the arching towers, hopping where it could not fly and sending the flagstones shuddering with each one. 

It was Leliana and Zevran at her side who brought it down again, both of them aiming longbows with care and firing deep into its heart, forcing it back to ground. Purple flames erupted again, searing the darkspawn as much as the dwarven infantry caught in the middle, and Eideann threw herself aside as it narrowly missed, feeling the heat singe her face it was so close. 

And then she was hauling herself up, sprinting through the remnants of purple flame regardless of the heat, headed for another ballista in range. Alistair was at her back, defending her from the onslaught, and Leliana and Zevran provided cover as arrows felled the darkspawn that set against her. She ignored them all. There was only one enemy that mattered. 

It was giant up close, spines as tall as a man erupting from its flesh and bristling like no dragon she had ever heard of before. That black and pruple fire made it hard to breath, and she saw men turned to ash in her wake as it followed her. What hope did they have against such power? Such rage? 

And this close she felt like that Void, that Nothingness had swallowed the world whole, was swallowing her as well. The Blight was thick on her ears, a ringing off-key song that beckoned to her. It took everything she had, all her anger and desperation to resist it. If she had stopped to think for even a moment, she would never have been able to do it. 

She forced the ballista around and fired, sending a shot straight into the beast’s neck, and it swung about and roared, sending fire towards them. Alistair shoved her clear and dove aside himself, and she looked up in a panic before finding him alive several paces away, gripping his side with a grimace of pain and rolling himself up to fight regardless. 

And then the Archdemon landed again, heavy on the roof, and came for them, eyes like nothing she had ever seen before, red and purple and full of pain and twisted rage. Eideann forsook the ballistas. She reached for her blades and drove forward, straight for the beast, straight into the Void.

The dragon’s tail swung overhead, catching Alistair and sending him flying as she ducked to avoid it. She swung back, unable to see if he was alright, focusing instead on the creature. Her heart panicked, but her mind kept her focused, and she left him to collect himself if he could. She prayed to the Maker to protect him, protect them. She had a promise yet to keep.

Urthemiel wheeled about, feet stomping, neck twisting, and fire spewed forth. Its claws slammed down atop one of the Dalish elves, crushing him beneath its talons. Knight-Commander Greagoir had to shove Irving out of the line of fire as more purple flame swept the flagstones and drove them all away. 

The rooftop was flooded with darkspawn. The dwarves focused on that line, battling them back, but even that was not enough to keep them all from slipping by. Eideann had to twist about and lop the head of a hurlock alpha from its shoulders as she dodged another kick by the Archdemon. She battled the creatures back before swinging wide and flinging herself clear, fleeing beneath Urthemiel’s belly. Even this proved no option, as it was covered with thick spines and scales like all the rest. Even if she could pierce through, there was no guarantee it would not just squash her. There were only a few places a dragon was weak: the skull, the maw, the eyes.

Maker, she wished she had a fucking griffon to ride so she had an angle on the beast. But the griffons were all dead. Any advantage they might have afforded was gone.

Angus would have to do. All that was left of Highever, of home, of Fergus and the life she had led before. The dog sank his teeth deep into Archdemon flesh and then gave a sharp cry as he was knocked clear, sent flying across the battlements. She heard him land, and he lay still, and she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to look away. 

No. She could not be distracted now. The Archdemon roared, a sound that stunned her for a moment, left her blind and dizzy, and then she gave a roar and hacked at its leg, feeling her blades sink into dragon flesh and draw forth sickly black blood in a hot rain that covered her from head to toe. The beast roared again, and Zevran gave a shout as it wheeled on him, flames bursting. 

Eideann found her feet again and went for the other leg, trying to bring it down. Its tail battered her away and she went flying, feeling something inside her armor crunch, something give way. A sharp blossoming pain shot through her, fierce and white-hot and a cry escaped her, erupting outward. But she could not stop.

She forced herself up, ignoring the pain again, rushing forward back into the fray. Beside her Alistair caught the blunt end of dragon claws and barely managed to escape being caught up alive.

One of the Templars was not so lucky. Urthemiel scooped him up, armor and all, crushing him like he were paper between its warped jaws. Dragonteeth punctured the metal like it were nothing, and the Templar screamed, then went flying out across the roof and off the tower. 

Eideann hoped he was dead before he hit the ground.

She dodged another swing of its spined tail, feeling the spines catch her cheek and tear through her skin, narrowly missing her eye. And then she caught hold of the spines and let the tail carry her up where she fell, twisting, onto its back, barely avoiding being skewered on its other spines. 

The Archdemon reared up, and she was nearly thrown clear, before she caught a grip and hauled herself up, crawling along its back, the feeling of Death and Nothing. 

And she thought of everyone down below, of all of Ferelden alight and burning. She thought of the old Grey Warden heroes, of what it had cost to end the Blights, and the price was nothing. The price had always been nothing. A single life to save so many? She had made that choice a thousand times, and she would make it again.

She did make it again.

She found her footing, racing forward, throwing herself onto the creature’s neck, and enchanted weapons found dragonflesh, cutting through scale and gristle and bone, until it tossed her clear, and she barely caught hold of one of its spines as it shook it great head and roared. 

The dizziness took her again. She lost all sound and sight and feeling. And then there was only the Song. The wretched Song. Fuck the Song.

She swung herself over and latched onto its head, crawling onto its neck again at the base of its skull, and straddling it. And then she brought her blades up, seeing them shining high in the sky, and brought them down again, hard. Slashing as hard as she could.

Urthemiel screamed.

_A Cousland always does their duty first._

The sound shook the tower itself, and the dragon staggered forward, tossing its head. This time Eideann held on. She could think of nothing else, even as its writhing spines caught on her pack and tore it open. Still she held on.

A flutter of black eclipsed her, dead petals that scattered into the wind, and she brought her blades down one more time. Once. Twice. Thrice. Riding the beast until at last it screamed a final scream and reared up one last time. And then she rose up as high as she could, roaring with the effort as Urthemiel roared with the pain, and thrust both blades home, down into its brain, severing everything that it was from everything it had once been. 

Urthemiel fell, lurching violently forward, and hit the ground so hard it kicked up the dust of war from the flagstones. And Eideann was thrown clear, landing on her back amidst the fluttering black rose petals. 

She reached up to catch one, submerged in pain. But it slipped through her fingers and crumbled to dust.

 _Protect Alistair. End the Blight. Become a Grey Warden and do what is right._ One by one the promises fell, dead petals about her, crumbling to nothing, fulfilled in the wake of Urthemiel’s fall.

A column of light burst from the two of them, piercing high into the sky above their heads. Eideann looked up then, all feeling gone, only her eyes moving, and reached her fingers up to the point where the light had pierced the clouds.

It cut through the burnt sky, left a column of air where the sky was clear high above, the Grey Light of Dawn. 

Knight of Dawn. She stared at it in wonder. 

And there they were. Stars. The flickering constellation of the Maiden above them, dancing in the early morning sky, twinkling. And she laughed softly, tears sliding from her cheeks, and let her hand fall. 

The pain took over, everything swallowing her up, darkness everywhere, and the Blightsong calling in her ears.

The brilliant light fell towards her, showering her with a rain of starlight, and then it erupted, outward, so bright she could not see. The force of it drove the breath from her, even as she went blind.

Everything went white.

A final thought came to her, hot tears slipping down her cheeks from the corner of her eyes as she struggled for breath that just wouldn’t come. 

_Alistair._

And then everything went black.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finds Eideann atop the tower of Fort Drakon; Alistair must become a King; the veterans of the Fifth Blight try to deal with their losses; Nathaniel Howe makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Comments always welcome.

The flash of light had left him blinded, dazed and confused.

 _Where am I?_

For a moment he could only lie there, blinking back the stars in his vision, and trying to deal with the silence that rang heavy and hard in his ears. And then he realized it was not silence as his hearing came back, slowly, the sounds of battle all about him.

And with it the pain came back too. He felt something shift inside his ribcage, and bit his lip to mask the pain as he tried to work out if it was safe to move. 

And then he remembered. 

Blightsong and Blightfire.

He pushed himself up. Fuck safety.

 _Eideann…_

His weapons were missing, but it did not matter. What darkspawn remained atop the roof with them were fleeing down into the depths, or diving from the tower itself to die on the ground below. 

_Maker, where is Eideann?!_

He staggered to his feet, staring about the roof, and saw the hulking form of the Archdemon pooled in black blood. Wynne was slowly rising, Petra helping her up, and General Fellhammer was panting and staring about as dazed as he.

_WHERE IS EIDEANN?!_

And then he saw her, red and black mingling in a pool beneath her body, staining her blonde hair dark. And he ran, damn his chest, damn his leg that protested, though it hurt him so much to do it, calling her name, calling for her. 

And she did not move.

He dropped to his knees beside her, splashing the Archdemon blood across his armor, ignoring the pain that rippled through every part of his body. And he bent over her, desperate and frightened. 

“Eideann!” 

_No, Maker don’t take her from me! The ritual! Maker, no!_

Still she did not move. 

He felt tears, hot and thick come to his eyes, and he let them fall, reaching for her to touch her face, and then to gather her into his arms, bending low over her and rocking her against him. 

“Please, Eideann. It’s over. Wake up.” His voice was a broken litany of sobs. “Please! Wake up! Please!” And he could hear how pathetic it sounded. And he did not care. “Maker, please, Eideann! Don’t leave me…Please…Please…I can’t…” 

He pressed his forehead to her own, shoulders shaking as the tears fell, heavy and large, onto her cheek and onto their armor and into her hair. And then he drew back and kissed her, kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks, kissed her mouth, kissed her eyelids. And held her tighter, heads together, desperate and afraid. 

_This can’t be real…_

“Eideann! Please! Don’t leave me here! I love you! Maker, please!” 

And then she stirred.

For a moment he thought he had imagined it, imagined her taking a breath. But then she breathed again and he bent lower with a soft laugh to cry harder, this time tears of relief as he gathered her into his lap and rocked her tighter. And she moved, ever so slightly, like it cost her so much to do so. And his hand caught her left one, holding it to his chest over his heart. 

“Al—stair…?” He nodded, eyes blurry through tears. 

“Oh, my love,” he breathed and kissed her forehead softly, stroking down her hair. “Maker’s mercy, I thought I’d lost you.” She drew another difficult breath, and then her lips parted.

“How…how will we…get it off the roof?” 

He laughed. Laughter and tears of relief, of joy. 

_Maker, it’s over. It’s really over…_

He looked up at the Archdemon, but it was definitely dead, and then back down at her.

“Hush,” he told her in a voice thick with love and relief. “Maker’s blood, for the first time in your life, rest….just rest…” He pressed their foreheads together, and she gently squeezed his hand with what strength she still had. “Look at all you have done,” he told her, murmuring, voice thick with tears. “Rest, my love. I’ll do the rest. I’ll do it all. You’ll see.” A tear slipped from her still-closed eyes and she opened them ever so slightly. Rainy Cousland Blues met his amber eyes and he shook his head, holding that gaze. “I promise, love. Just rest…” And then she nodded and turned her head into him. He felt her slip into a deep sleep, and he checked she yet breathed before nodding, and then carefully rising, gathering her into his arms.

His Queen. 

_Maker, I thought I’d lost you. How would I ever…I could never…_ He held her close, no matter what it cost him to do it, leg wounded and sore, chest a sharp stabbing pain from whatever was broken. He did not care. He hobbled a few steps forward anyway, injuries be damned.

He held her in his arms, her head cradled against his breastplate, breath fogging the metal of his armor by the Grey Warden sigil emblazoned in gold. He bent his head over her again, whispering once more.

“I promise, love. The rest is mine.” And then he finally looked up.

Wynne stood there, and Leliana, the Chantry Sister in tears herself. The handful of what was left of the force that had raged into his city was solemn, watching him. Zevran stood, a fiery look in his eyes, and in his hands their weapons, and Alistair’s shield, all gathered and held with reverence. 

He wondered which blade had brought Urthemiel down: Maric’s Justice, or Cousland Duty. And then realized it did not matter, it had always been both. She had always been both. Just as it should be. 

He blinked away the tears and then looked to Wynne, who was too tired for more magic but tried her best anyway, pouring what skills she had left into Eideann because Alistair would not let the spells hit him. The elderly mage drew close, leaning heavily on Petra’s arm, and the pair of them together, both mages, spun what magic they still had left before Wynne staggered a little and Petra had to catch her and that was all they could do. 

Alistair looked back over his shoulder to the husk of an Archdemon that was bleeding out. But there was time yet to deal with that. For now, he had to retake his city. He was the King and they needed their King. Their Queen who had led them this far had fallen. And he had made a promise.

He pushed past the mages, towards the fortress doors, and slowly took the steps, one by one, regardless of how much it hurt to do so. He would let no one help him. He carried her alone. His Queen, his Eideann, his Flame of Highever, Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. He would never let her go again. 

It took them a long time to finally reach the bottom of the tower, long enough that by the time they had the darkspawn were fleeing the city. 

They were met at the gates of Fort Drakon by Bann Teagan and the Redcliffe men under his command. The Bann took one look at them and crossed the distance between them, arms closing about them both, Eideann in his arms and Alistair before him, and Alistair bent his head to rest on Teagan’s shoulder, weary and tired, Eideann between them. They stood like that for a moment, until at last Teagan pulled away, and met his gaze with his own slate grey. 

“Alistair?” The question was there. 

“She’s alive,” he confirmed softly, finding it hitched his voice a little. “The Archdemon has been slain.”

It rippled through the soldiers, who knew then who had saved them, and he heard snatches of their comments even as he pushed forward. 

"Cousland’s Beacon,” the whispers said, as they spread outward in a vast net. 

_Fitting,_ Alistair thought, bending to gaze at his bride in his arms. _The beacon of light was always hers._

Teagan did not try to take Eideann from him, but he had a better plan. Horses. He helped Alistair mount his own, Eideann in his arms perched on the saddle before him, and then climbed atop his own steed.

“Parts of the Palace are still intact,” he explained, nudging his horse down the path. “It’s best that we go there.” 

The rest happened in a blur. At the Royal Palace, a bloodsplattered Eamon immediately seized control of the army as Teagan and Alistair took Eideann to one of the small guest chambers in the wing that still stood. A good dosing of lyrium meant Alistair was quickly treated for a broken rib and a twisted knee, the knee hurting more and the rib simply set and bound. And then he crawled back into his armor and rode out with Teagan to chase the rest of the darkspawn from his city. And the troops rallied to him, tired and spent as they were, as street by street they reclaimed Denerim and the darkspawn fell before him.

When he felt no more darkspawn, he went instead into the estates where most people were trying to get by. The clouds had split, and a soft steady rain was trickling down to wash Denerim clean, extinguish the flames, and beckon in the cool autumn winds from the Waking Sea to cover the city in the scent of salt and brine. A few of the soldiers took to fishing along the docks, and brought in a catch that could feed the refugees.

He found Oghren and Shayle at the main gate, though the state of the walls made him despair. And yet they had held. The darkspawn were piled high into pyres to be burned the moment the rain allowed. But the streets still ran red with watered down blood, and he could smell them. 

Sten was there too, and greeted him with a soft “kadan” like he always saved for Eideann. 

There was no sign of Morrigan. She was simply gone. Like she had said she would be. 

For the next week he only got by on sheer force of will and Eamon’s help alone. Eamon got the city functioning somehow, and Teagan led a small force to begin preparations. It was not impossible, however cruel, to believe other nations might take advantage of their weakness. Eamon’s own preparations were the sort that involved feeding a city. The countryside had been beaten by the horde, but some of the farms yet remained, and those willing to till the soil set to doing so as quickly as they could, bringing in the harvest a little early. All the same, it was a welcome gift for a starving city in the wake of war. 

Shayle stood at the main gate in guard, but Oghren took a company out into the wilderness, helped by the few Dalish scouts that remained, and they hunted down bands of remaining darkspawn. Sten brought order where none had been, and the soldiers had a newfound respect for him. They followed his orders as he swept the city with the care and attention only a Qunari could put to purpose. And Alistair was glad of them all.

The mages and Templars did not return immediately to their battered Circle. They remained in the Palace to assist in the aftermath, using what healing skills they had to help the wounded, what other skills they had to help the city. Piece by piece they rebuilt Denerim, slowly and with great effort, clearing paths that would not clear, making make-shift bridges where the others had been felled. 

Leliana was in their midst, and also among the Chantry Sisters, who had set to feeding the refugees and providing succor, alms, and services for the needy, the poor, and the fallen.

He learned how to lead in those days, purely by being Eideann, or the closest approximation he could be. He pretended he knew exactly what he was doing, pretended his convictions were entirely set. And he saw the needy and the suffering and his heart ached to help them, so he did. Any way he could.

Through it all Eideann slept, hardly moving from her bed. He saw very little of her, to be honest. She had not woken since the rooftop of Fort Drakon, and Wynne continued to shake her head whenever he went to ask.

He spent his nights in a chair at her bedside, fingers entwined in hers, usually sleeping with his head in his arms. 

Maker, he did not want to move.

Bit by bit relief arrived. Ships began to appear from the Waking Sea as the Free Marches responded to Ferelden need with gifts of seafood and ale in casks. Eideann’s letters had reached Starkhaven and Jader, and word came from the other Wardens that soon they would send a company of entirely Ferelden Wardens to bolster their forces in the aftermath of the Blight. He was grateful for that, but nervous, though with Eideann out of commission, he was the acting Warden-Commander as well as King. He felt the pressure of it all then, and wondered how she had borne it all.

And then he realized she had merely served, as was her way, and he let it be. 

She had always served. She had always done her duty. 

He did his.

The ships carried a few refugees from the city, people who chose not to stay in the face of such destruction. The lands in the south and the west were tainted by the Blight in places. Some lands would never be the same. Others would take years to recover. And Ferelden’s wealth lay in its resolute determination to survive regardless of the conditions. What trading they did was agricultural in nature: leathers, wools, grains and agrarian produce. With the Blight, that economy had been severely damaged. 

It would not recover overnight. 

He let those who wished to flee go, but he promised those who stayed that they would do what they could, overcome. And for the first time in his life, he felt it ringing in his soul that he was speaking the truth to all those people. And giving a speech before the crowds did not perturb him as it once had. He just spoke from his heart, honesty and faith in their ability to persevere. And that, for most, was enough.

And then, finally, when he was returning from a hard day clearing the rubble at the main gate, a runner came for him, sent by Wynne. Eideann, it appeared, was awake. 

He burst through the doors into the stable wing from the exposed Landsmeet chamber – light streamed through the damaged roof – only to be met with Wynne waiting for him beside the hearth of the small common room where they were all staying. He paused when he saw her, stopping in his tracks, and she considered him a moment before nodding quietly.

“She is awake,” she told him softly, but her eyes were sad. Further in the room, Teagan was leaning, arms crossed, one shoulder to the wall. He was peering into the flames in the hearth where they had taken to burning whatever was left of the fallen buildings lost in the battles. Alistair looked to him, then Wynne. 

“What?” he asked, sensing there was something amiss. “What is it?" Wynne looked away, then back to him, and then raised her chin a little, hands laced together before her. 

“Alistair, there is…something you should know,” she said softly. He stepped away from the corridor into the room.

“What?” he demanded, anxious and concerned. What was wrong with Eideann? What had them both so quiet. Teagan would not even look at him, eyes a slate grey in the firelight.

“She…didn’t say a word,” Wynne said softly. “Not to anyone. She must have known, but she didn’t tell a soul.” She met his eyes, her own teal like oceans of sorrow before him. “Perhaps she feared what people would do or say. You know she has a habit of putting everything else first.”

“What is it?” he said sharply, surprising himself at the tone in his voice, but his voice was quieter now, even with that sharpness, and it had that dangerous sort of overtone that Eideann’s voice sometimes got when she was done with people messing around.

“Eideann was carrying a child.” At first the words did not sink in. He stood, still waiting for her answer him. And then they did sink in. He stiffened, glancing to the door to the chambers where Eideann lay. And then he looked back, drawing a few breaths after realizing he had momentarily forgotten. Wynne pursed her lips a moment, struggling for the words. “It…she…”

And it hit him then, clear as day what they were trying to tell him. Teagan’s stony avoidance. Wynne’s quiet, too gentle explanations she could not quite put to words.

“She lost it, didn’t she?” his voice was barely more than a whisper. He could hear the pain in his voice. Teagan did look up then, meeting his gaze across the room, eyes solemn and sad, dark circles underneath. Wynne swallowed, drawing a little closer towards him. 

“I think she made a difficult choice,” she said gently, “between saving all those people, or defending that one child. And she…” He cut her off, shaking his head, holding up his hand and turning away. 

“No,” he said, voice laced with anger and hurt. “We assumed one of us was going to die. It should have been that way. We lucked out.” Or something, at least. They could not have known. “The choice was between dying herself or letting me make that sacrifice. She did this for me. She was on that roof for me.” He turned his face away, unable to look at them both, trying to work through the complex knot of emotions that now roiled within him. And then he gave an angry curse, slamming his first into the wooden wall beside him. “She didn’t even tell me!” he spat. 

“Would you have let her go into that battle if you had known?” Wynne asked softly.

“Yes! No? I don’t…I don’t know.” He shook his fist out, wincing from the impact with the wall, and bent his head. “We needed Wardens. We lost Riordan. And it…it had to be a Warden, you know that. The pair of them together decided it couldn’t be me unless there was no other choice.” He shook his head angrily. “She spent so long building a world to live in when she ended the Blight, trying to put the pieces in place so it could all fall together in the best way, so long to keep Ferelden strong…”

He paused then, eyes sharp and pricking with unshed tears, and the question bubbled up inside him. He glanced to Wynne and he saw her sorrow, and he drew a breath.

“How long?” he asked her. “When?”

Wynne’s mouth thinned, and she glanced away.

“It would have begun to show soon,” she explained, “so only a few months along, maybe around three?” The beginning of summer, the end of spring. 

He traced it back to Redcliffe, when she had been forced to deal with Connor. He had shouted at her then, for the death of a child by her own hands. And all that time his own had been within her. And she had never said a word. She had borne it all in silence, like she always did. She bore the consequences of her actions alone. 

The Deep Roads was too early, so when then? In the weeks between Redcliffe and the Deep Roads.

There was only once, in all that time. 

The Chantry, the House of the Maker himself. He felt the tears swell, and he forced them back with a heavy sigh, clenching his fists at his side.

She had never said a word. She had traded that secret knowledge for…for everything. For Ferelden. For the future. For him.

“Can I see her now?” he asked quietly, and Wynne gave a nod.

“Be gentle with her, Alistair,” she said in a quiet voice.

He just moved towards the first door, and opened it slowly.

Eideann was curled about herself, arm in a heavy splint, bandages wound about her torso where Wynne’s magic had not been enough. Her head was buried in her arms, like she were making herself small. But she was shaking, like she had done on the ridge before the battle when she looked down with him across the fate that awaited them and knew they would go down there anyway. 

She had overheard them. Of course she had. Doors were thin, after all, and he had not been particularly quiet really. 

He paused a moment, unable to fill the silence of grief within the room. Words were too insignificant. And then, finally, she curled tighter.

“I didn’t know,” she said, voice wet and thick with tears. “Not until we got to Soldier’s Peak.” And that hurt more. A sharp pain that cut right through him. Those days they spent not speaking, and she had carried this? When could she have told him? How? After what she had asked of them both that night? 

He forced himself to breathe again, closing his eyes a moment and just listening to the sound of his own heartbeat, and her sobs within the room. And then he carefully shut the door behind him and bent to unlace his boots before stepping from them and climbing onto the bed with her. His arms wrapped about her, careful of her injuries and his own, and he buried his face in the back of her neck, the scent of her hair, of her, eclipsing everything.

“Ah, love,” he breathed. Nothing else. Words could never be enough in that space. He felt her break down, sobbing into the pllows, cradled in his arms. And he felt tears on his own cheeks too as he closed his eyes and held her sorrow and pain. 

She did not need to explain it. There was nothing to explain. He had been with her almost every day for the past year, and knew by now how she made her choices. If she had told him then at Soldier’s Peak when they were hurting from the dark choices cast between them there, what would he have done? He did not know. The kingdom needed an heir, and it was unlikely they would ever conceive again. To even consider she had been with his child this time was…he did not know. It seemed impossible. Unreal, perhaps. 

But it was real, and the pain of that loss was real, the consequences of those choices were real. It hurt him no less than her, though she had borne the weight of it alone in that final fight. 

She had made a point to take that final strike herself, her back-up plan, her safeguard. She always had one. It was done so if that ritual failed, he would be left to steward the lands she had built from the ruins of war. She had done it to insure the peace they had fought so hard for was not shattered in a single moment of uncertainty. She had done it because the Landsmeet chose Ferelden’s monarch, not heredity, though of course that played its part, and she had made him King beyond a doubt. And she had done it, probably in part, because she would never give him an heir.

The choice could never be a good one. Her life and her child’s for a broken kingdom and a shattered nation that would be torn to pieces by war. Or his life and peace, a chance to grow anew into something more. 

Eideann lived in a world where that duty to others came first.

The world had demanded that price of her. Of him. He just had not known it. But Eideann had paid that price in full knowledge, and never once said a word.

He had only seen her this broken once before, in the Gauntlet before Andraste’s Ashes where she had fallen to her knees before the ghost of her father. The most difficult thing for Eideann to do was forgive herself. There were some pains even she could not rationalize away.

“I couldn’t tell you,” she sobbed in his arms. “I’m sorry…I…I…” He simply buried his head closer into her neck, arms holding her safe against him, and let his own grief wash over him as he shook his head against her.

“Hush, love,” he murmured, sorrow thick in his voice. “Rest.”

“Don’t go away,” she pleaded, soft and quiet and never needing anything so much as that just then. “Please…stay…” And he nodded, closing his eyes again against the tears.

“Always,” he breathed. “Always.”

***

Eideann did not emerged from those chambers for another week. Most of the time, she could not even stomach visitors. She spent a lot of it sleeping, and the rest thinking. 

There was a distance between her and Alistair as each struggled alone to deal with the darkness that lay between them now. Hers was the guilt and anger at herself, the fact she had done what she had done, trying to live with that grief. His was something different, and she did not have the time to think on what it was when she could hardly manage her own tumultuous emotions. 

Usually it was Alistair who brought her food, regardless, or sometimes Leliana. But they never stayed long unless she asked them to, and they were quiet and withdrawn. 

Leliana would sometimes tell her how well Alistair was doing, putting Denerim back together from all its shattered pieces and parts. But there were shattered pieces and parts neither of them could fix, she knew, and those were her fault. Hers alone. 

Wynne occasionally came by to check on her bandages, to heal what wounds she could. But some things only healed with time. And she had given so much of herself, so much of everything. 

And the fact she would do it again brought no comfort to her. 

In those dark days, she learned to listen to the blessed sounds of silence, now that the Song was gone. And she spent a long time just sitting gazing into nothing, trying to reconcile her present with her future. 

Until one day it was enough. The dawn parted the curtains and she was forced to stare into the rising sunlight, and she decided she needed to escape that room, that prison of despair. She needed to help people, to see that there was something yet saved. She struggled to rise, but finally managed, desperation and determination in spades as she pushed herself to her shaking feet. She had to steady herself against the bedpost a moment, dizzy from the shock of it all, from eating next to nothing, from the injuries, the bloodloss, her miscarriage, and everything else. 

She did not bother with shoes, which would involve bending over. But she did find a loose gown, soft green the color of Highever clover, and she carefully wrapped it around herself, tying it tight with a sash until she was somewhat presentable, though a glance in the mirror told her she looked like she were death itself.

She swallowed and took in the sight of her face, thin from the sickbed and grief, hair lank and dull about her face.

And then she wound her fingers into the pendant at her neck, blood red drop of darkspawn blood there to remind her of those who had been lost. And she bowed her head a moment to weigh the real weight of that in her mind. 

The door creaked on its hinges, and she looked up slowly, because looking up quickly was difficult, and glanced back to see Teagan standing in the doorway.

“Eideann?” he asked gently, eyes soft with worry. And her own flooded with tears to see him, because she could not handle seeing anyone. He paused a moment, wetting his lips, and then opened the door a little wider. “Eideann, there’s someone you really need to see.” 

He looked haggard himself, like he had been worked to the bone keeping everything afloat. He would never have suggested it if it was not important though. He had not even once disturbed her. So she came, slowly, to the door, and he held it for her, taking her arm to give her some support as she shuffled slowly down the corridor. 

He led her through a small chamber where a fire flickered low in the hearth. They appeared to be burning a painted sign. And then held another door for her, this one larger, so she could pass. 

She found herself rather unexpectedly in the Landsmeet chamber, peering through one of the doors that led to the back wings of the Palace. She paused a moment, hesitant, because surely people would be there, and the roof was half-collapsed. Light streamed through, the light of dawn, causing her to blink and then look up to see the sky above. 

And then she let her eyes fall into the room.

It was not full. Not even a little. In fact, there was only one person within. 

For a moment she could not even comprehend it. She stared, unseeing, blinking it back. Her mind realized long before she put a name to the face, because tears swam in her gaze and she took a wary step forward, lips shaking. 

And then she knew. 

“Fergus.” It escaped her in a breath. Her big brother, her best friend. She took another step forward, the tears spilling out, and put out a hand for him even though he was halfway across the room and could not possibly reach it. 

She did not accept Teagan’s help as he walked behind her, mindful she did not fall. She paced herself, stepping forward, one at a time, careful, uneasy, and wishing to go faster. 

And he was watching her with eyes that held a haunted truth, clad in a rough tunic that looked like it belonged in Arl Eamon’s estate, blue and silver velvet and silks. 

He closed the distance between them, sweeping her into his arms, and she clung to him, sobbing.

“Fergus! Oh, Fergus!” 

After so much sadness, this one thing…

Here he was…alive.

A bark cut across the hall, and she heard the doors open, and then she felt Alistair’s presence, rather than looking up. She just knew it was him, somehow. Who else could walk with her dog? 

Fergus pulled back, looking back, and Alistair was watching them, wary and tired. Fergus did not let her go – how could he after all that had happened? She looked away from Alistair, looking instead to Fergus. Was he really real? He had to be. And yet…

“Fergus….” She breathed, and he looked back. “Fergus, what happened to you?” His eyes were sad.

“I never made it to the Battle at Ostagar,” he told her softly, tears standing in his own eyes. “We were still scouting in the Wilds when we were attacked by a party of darkspawn. Most of my men were killed.” He looked bitter, his eyes sliding away. “I woke up two weeks later in a Chasind hut, wounded and feverish. By the time I was able to sneak out of the Wilds, you were already marching to Denerim.” He looked up. “I tried to get word to Highever,” he told her, and her heart ached. “You can imagine what happened, I suppose?” She nodded, bitter and angry, sniffing away her tears.

“Howe paid for what he did,” she said, voice colder than anything she had ever heard from herself. “I killed him myself.” 

She had never seen Fergus angry before, but in that moment he nodded, and there was a cold light of vengeance in his eyes.

“Howe was a greedy, traitorous bastard,” he told her, voice torn with anguish and hate. He had only just learned, recently then, and that grief was as fresh on him as her own grief was on her. “I just wish I’d been there to help you kill him.” But he softened a little then, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a moment. “It’s in the past. The choices made cannot be undone.” And then he sighed. “At least Amaranthine now belongs to the Grey Wardens. There’s some justice in that, I think.” Eideann looked up, blinking, confused.

“It does?” 

“I…I made the decree.” Alistair had crossed the hall quietly, Angus at his side. “Jader sent us a contingent of Wardens, and I wanted them somewhere close…it…it was Eamon’s suggestion.” Eideann stared at him, and then at Fergus, and closed her eyes a moment. What else had she missed?

And then she realized Alistair was still considering Fergus awkwardly and she realized then that he had no idea who he was. She looked between them, then shook her head.

“Fergus, this is…King Alistair,” she said quietly, meeting Fergus’s eyes a moment. “Your Majesty, this is my brother, Fergus Cousland, Teryn of Highever.” 

There was a moment when no one spoke, and then Fergus turned to give a low bow. 

“Your Highness, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said quietly. Alistair shook his head.

“Please,” he said in his soft voice, molten gold eyes hurt and confused. “Call me Alistair.” He looked to Eideann, a question there. But Fergus just smiled slightly and nodded.

“Alistair it is then,” he said in return. Eideann slowly unwound her arm from his, and Alistair looked between them. And Eideann carefully stepped towards him, gently reaching for his hand. 

Something eased in him then, and his fingers found hers, clutching them lightly in the space between them. Fergus considered them eyes sliding from Alistair to her and then back, and he nodded.

“I see…” he said after a moment, and Eideann drew a breath.

It was Teagan who saved them, stepping forward. 

“You’ve missed a lot of the story, old friend,” he said, clapping Fergus on the back. Fergus let the impact shake him a little.

“So it seems.”

“Come,” Teagan said, drawing him away a little. “I shall explain, and we shall find some breakfast.” Fergus smiled ever so slightly and then shook his head, surrendering.

“You never change,” he murmured, but it was fond and grateful. Teagan just smiled, gave a slight bow to Eideann and Alistair, and a soft murmur of ‘Your Majesties’ and then drew Fergus out towards the kitchens.

For a moment Eideann felt a rising panic as Fergus’s back receded. She wanted to follow him, but forced herself to accept he would fine. Teagan would not let anything happen to him. And he was right there. Right there. Her brother. Alive. And right there. 

Instead she looked to Alistair, eyes quiet and sore from tears, and he just reached to wipe the last away, shaking his head gently. She bowed her head under his touch, and he let his hand fall, realizing perhaps it was too much too soon. That loss was still fresh on their hearts. 

Her fingers still held his though, lightly, a lifeline in tumultuous waters, and he did not let her go. 

“I thought,” she said, haltingly, “perhaps I could help somehow. Somewhere. I needed to get out of that room.” And so he smiled slightly again and nodded, and walked with her towards the far end of the carpeted hall where the doors stood wide open out into the antechamber and beyond that the Palace District, sunlight blazing through. 

He looked like he had not slept in days, so she listened as he explained what progress had been made, all that had happened since that evening on Fort Drakon. Some of the news was good, and others of it were bad. All the same news was news, and slowly she relearned the world. 

And she relearned his touch as well, slowly, his hand in hers all it took to ease her back into that gentle strength. She stood with him on the steps of the wounded Royal Palace, overlooking the wounded city, and saw something that made her heart ease and quietly glow with joy.

Amidst the desolation, the destruction, and the death, life had begun to bustle in the corners. People were laughing, smiling, putting their lives back together. It gave her hope.

“They have been waiting,” Alistair said softly, “for their Queen.” And she simply smiled, conflicted and tired, and sighed.

“They need us both the same.”

***

He slammed the bag down on the counter, angry as he tore through his small collection of belongings. It was not really much. Most he had bore the coat of arms of the Varleys, his mother’s cousin. He could not wear that sigil anymore.

A ruined life and a ruined legacy. All of it cast from him.

“Nathaniel, you don’t have to do this,” the soft voice of Saemus at his door, but Nathaniel just tossed a wind-up toy bronto into his pack in reply and then shook his head angrily. 

“Yes. I do.” 

“This is Kirkwall, not Ferelden.” 

“Do you really think that matters?” His grey eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at the Viscount’s son. Saemus was still so young, still really a boy pretending to be a grown man. Give him a few years and it would really be a danger. But for the time being, he was company enough. 

“Yes,” the boy replied, darkly. “I think it does.” 

“It doesn’t.” He turned back to his pack, gritting his teeth. “My brother is dead, my sister has vanished into the streets, and my father was murdered in his own house by Grey Wardens for choosing the wrong side in a war.” He shook his head bitterly, shoving his only unmarked cloak into the pack on top of the last of his things. “The name of Howe is synonymous with traitor. I cannot stay here and bring that shame onto Ser Rodolphe. My name will smear his own. It’s time I was gone before people start to notice.” Saemus stepped into the room as Nathaniel swung his pack onto his shoulder, blocking the Fereldan’s way forward.

“But you love it here in the Free Marches. You said yourself you’ve never been happier than at the tourney at Tantervale! Surely there must be a way to clear your name…”

“This is about more than that,” Nathaniel said sharply, silencing the boy. “I don’t want to clear my name, disown my family and let it die in the dirt. I want it back. Not every Howe should pay the price because one man was called a traitor. I intend to see justice done.” Saemus paused and then followed him out into the corridor, the worked marble walls of the Viscount’s Keep shining like all of Hightown, a masterpiece of Tevinter architecture. It was nothing to Starkhaven, where he had spent most of his time, but since coming to Kirkwall, he had fallen for its sturdy charm, its high walls and ridiculous blend of high and low in all corners. He was going to miss it. That much was true.

“Where will you go?” the Viscount’s son asked him softly as he stalked down the corridor with nothing but a name covered in filth and any belongings not covered in Ser Rodolphe Varley’s crest. He did not even have a bow to take. That too held that crest. He would not taint the man who had taken him in by association to a filthy name. Ser Rodolphe was his mother’s cousin, not his father’s. His mother’s family would probably no more speak to him now than they had ever done before. 

Arl Bryland would have been one of the first to bow to a Cousland Queen, traitorous backstabbing vindictive bitch. Being on the wrong side of the war should not mean death. And he should not have to pay for the crimes of his father.

And neither should Delilah. Maker, he was afraid for Delilah. The crown had seized all of Amaranthine, and turned his ancestral home of Vigil’s Keep over to a band of Grey Wardens, the letter from home had said.

“I’ve paid for passage to Amaranthine,” he finally answered, throwing open the gates of the Viscount’s Keep and leaving Saemus in the shadowed interior as he stepped out into the sunlight. “I will go home.” And there he would put this right. One way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sadness, everyone. This chapter was another that made me cry to write it. Its part of what got it out so quickly actually, so that is not always a bad thing. Next chapter: the conclusion of Book 4: Hero; but we'll be picking right up with Book 5 shortly afterward, and the story is far from over, so take a deep breath and enjoy the slight lull in intensity for the moment. ;)


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie finds herself in a difficult position, which turns into a possible opportunity; Isabela makes her move; Eideann and Alistair finally have their coronation; news reaches Eideann about darkspawn in Amaranthine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence, mentions of sexual harassment
> 
> Comments always welcome. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading Dances in Darkness - Book 4: Warden. Dances in Darkness - Book 5: Amaranthine coming soon. :)

“The Templars in Kirkwall like to think they have all mages properly leashed, but when has that ever been true?” Sidonie kept her head down, avoiding turning to look at the woman who was following her through the Hightown Bazaar like it was just another day, out for a stroll. “We can keep them from taking notice while you’re with us. Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“I told you no, Athenril.” 

“Word on the street is your mother is starving, and your uncle’s always been good at running up his debts.” Sidonie closed her eyes a moment, ignoring the prod. So the elven smuggler took a few longer strides to pace in front of her, walking backwards now to peer up at Sidonie’s face. “I could put this to you another way,” she suggested darkly. “We can keep the Templars from taking notice while you’re with us, or we can make sure they take notice because you’re against us. It’s a doglord eat doglord sort of world on those streets.” Sidonie shoved past her and took the steps down into the sandstone streets of Lowtown, away from the prying noble eyes. “You think we couldn’t tell them right where Gamlen’s living now? There’s a lot of people in this town that want to bring him down, a couple Templars included.” Sidonie took a few more steps, then paused, standing stock still. And then she carefully looked back.

“What’s the job?” Athenril smirked and crossed her arms, leaning back against the sandstone wall the skirted one side of the steps. 

“There’s a merchant named Cavril. Friend of the Templars, so they let him set up his little shop in the Gallows.” She shrugged. “We supplied him in return for a piece of the take, but now he won’t pay up.” She pushed up from the wall and sighed. “We can’t go near him without him screaming for the guard – but you can. Word on the street is you can rough a man up if need be.” She met Sidonie’s oxblood eyes. “We want our goods back. Do that, and we’ll call Gamlen’s debts even, and we’ll guard your back when the Templars come looking for trouble.” She drew forth a small pouch that jingled, heavy with coin. “Oh, and we’ll throw in five sovereigns to make the deal sweeter. You could feed your little brother, your mother, that bastard of an uncle who keeps burying you more in debt…whatever you’d like.” Sidonie stared at her a moment. 

Go into the Gallows. Smuggle back some goods a man had not paid for. Her eyes narrowed.

“What does this Cavril sell?”

“Bits and bobs, all sorts of things, really,” Athenril said. “At least…publicly. It’s his down-low business we have a stake in. Furniture and knick-nacks is of course his cover.” The elf smirked slightly. “The worm’s a friend of the Templars. What do _you_ think he really sells.” 

“You want _me_ to break into the Gallows and smuggle lyrium from under the Templar’s noses?!” Sidonie hissed, keeping her voice low in case anyone was listening. Athrenil gave her a flat look.

“I know a few people who say you can do it. And if you can’t…well…let’s say the Templars will catch you either way.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sidonie asked darkly. “I could go to Meeran, tell him what’s going on. Your entire operation – ”

“Honey, unless you’re banging Meeran, he won’t give a fuck,” the elf said simply. “And let’s be frank. You’re _not_ banging Meeran. Because if you were, he damn well wouldn’t be paying every other night for Madam Lusine to set aside the usual portion he drools over, would he?” 

Meeran had tried, blessed Andraste. If Carver ever found out, her little brother would go insane. She had never told him the way his hands crept, the way he got too close, the glint in his eye. 

_Only a few more months,_ she told herself, drawing in a slow breath. A few more and then she would be free of him. 

But it was true. The Templars had been watching. She’d been careful not to use any magic. She’d worked with her halberd alone on most jobs. She saved magic for little things, far out in the Wounded Coast when jobs ran up with Raiders. She had been as careful as she could. She did not even walk on the same side of the street as Templars. Knowing her luck, they’d sense the lyrium core in her staff. 

But this was insane. Athenril wanted her to break into the Gallows itself! 

And yet…

Ever since his last attempt to get more favors from her, Meeran had been selling them short. Sidonie had not even eaten that day yet, and for all they were struggling, Uncle Gamlen continued to drown his sorrows and gamble away money he did not have. She was running short of options. In fact she had even, in a bleak moment, toyed with the idea of giving Meeran exactly what he wanted. And she hated that the thought had even come to mind. 

That was why she was out there anyway, trying to find work in one of the parlors off Hightown where they always wanted pretty girls to serve customers, or sell clothes. It was hardly a dream job, but it was something. And she was desperate for something.

And Athrenil knew it. 

Oh, she had known, almost a year back now, when they had first crossed paths with Athenril in the Gallows after signing up with the Red Iron that the elf was going to be trouble. For almost a year, Athenril had waited, cooling her heels and watching. And now, when Sidonie really could not say no, she had chosen her moment to strike.

Lyrium smuggling. The exact thing they had gone to Meeran to avoid. Maker…

She could not let anyone else know. She had to do this one alone. She turned back to the elf, still waiting at the top of the wide Hightown steps, and then met her gaze.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want ten sovereigns. You’re not exactly picking an easy job. And if Meeran catches me working outside the Red Iron, my hide won’t be worth half that.” 

“Seven, and that’s it.” 

“Done, but I want an advance cut. I’ll need to to make some bribes.” To break into the Gallows itself…Athenril tossed her the pouch and Sidonie caught it, feeling the weight. 

“You have a day,” she said simply. “Double cross me, and some nice Templars will be paying a visit to Lowtown tomorrow night.” Sidonie gritted her teeth and then watched as the elf turned and sauntered away. And then she glanced to the pouch in her hands and sighed.

***

He hated evening patrols. There seemed hardly a need, with the curfew in place. He had witnessed would-be escapees try to flee before, but never from the Gallows, where the punishment was to be shot on site by any number of archers lining the walls. He was a Knight-Lieutenant, not a regular infantryman. When he had agreed to come to Kirkwall, it had been with a promise of performing a sacred duty. But night guardsman…?

He was only there because he knew that Knight-Commander Meredith was reviewing plans to determine who should take the position as her Knight-Captain. His name was in that running, and he had a very good working relationship with the Knight-Commander. The past half a year had given him the chance to prove himself. He had let sortees out into the city, uncovered a nest of apostates living in a cave off the Wounded Coast, and been integral in recruitment and training regimens. 

Honestly, he liked working with new recruits. They were not yet broken by the work they must do. They were brimming with hope and good intentions and bright ideals. They _believed_. He wished, more than anything, he still believed the way they did in the glory and the honor of the Order. His work was important. Being a Templar was the highest calling he knew. He respected that position, and he would never choose another. But he also knew that oftentimes it demanded much.

Sometimes it demanded everything. 

He thought of Samson briefly. The foolish man. He had been too kind, to everyone, too open. He had mistaken the role of keeper for friend, and helped to sneak letters from mages out into the city. When Knight-Commander Meredith had learned, he had been stripped off his commission and cast out on the street. He would die of lyrium withdrawal, or else make something better of himself. Samson…well, Cullen was not sure which it would be. 

But he knew how dangerous mages could be. The one who had been sneaking letters out, a young man called Maddox, had been given the brand the next day, stripped off all emotion. 

Only once had he faltered in that duty, only ever once. And that had been when he had seen Solona’s eyes in the face of a girl who had requested Tranquility instead of a Harrowing. It had almost broken his heart.

He was not that same person anymore. Solona’s wiles had twisted him into a sense of complacency. It had cost her her life, and it had cost him almost all of his. He did not yet know if he could ever get it back.

There were enough blood mages in Kirkwall he did not need to worry about the weight of punishments. Kirkwall was a hive of dangerous magic and criminals, and that on its best day. It was one step from the brink at any given time.

He rounded the walls and sighed, glancing out towards the Gallows docks, and caught sight of something there that gave him pause. A small boat, completely unauthorized. He narrowed his eyes and crossed the flagstones towards it. 

There was an elf who sat in the boat, bent over a bag and muttering something to himself, but as Cullen approached, he looked up, eyes wide. 

“Maker! Knight-Lieutenant!” He looked about anxiously, then rose to his feet, boat rocking.

“What are you doing here?” Cullen asked, eyes cold, reaching for his sword. If he had to be a night guard, he was going to do it properly. The elf looked about shiftily, but his hands were nowhere near a weapon. He just shook his head.

“An associate of mine works here in the Gallows, tends a stall,” he said hurriedly. “Serrah Cavril? I…I have a shipment that was running late, and he told me to drop it off…” Cullen glared at him, refusing to believe such a simplistic story. His voice was an octave too high, and his story too fishy, and it was past dark. What sort of madman delivered goods in the dark by boat? No, something was afoot.

But then another Templar emerged from about the corner, and paused a moment before waving to them and crossing to join him on the dock.

“Tomwise,” he greeted the elf, then looked to Cullen. “Knight-Lieutenant.” 

“You know this man?” Cullen asked, motioning with his sword. The Templar, a Knight Corporal who had a clean track record and a mean right arm, gave a nod.

“Tomwise does runs for Cavril. That son of a bitch has never treated the elf right. See him here a lot. Usually with help.”

“So where is the help? Why is he here?”

“Delivering cargo,” the Templar said simply. “Usually is.” Tomwise nodded, very quickly. “He usually only comes with one other person. Boats not exactly fit for a load.” There was a sound on the steps behind them, and all three looked back. “Ah, here we go. Another refugee from the look of it. Cavril figures if they drown, then they’re easily replaced. He can run shipments at night, and it keeps his costs down on docking fees. Stingy bastard.” Cullen looked suspiciously to them all, then turned to the refugee who was coming down the steps with a box, a halberd at her back. 

She drew up alongside him, and then glanced up to meet his eyes. 

There was something familiar in them, the shape? He did not know. He simply held up his other hand.

“Hold it. I want to know what’s in the box.” She glanced to Tomwise, then the other Templar, like his question was stupid. And then she sighed.

“My money of course,” she said simply. “If I didn’t get paid for running goods, why would I bother? I drop the goods, he leaves the money. I take it back. That way he doesn’t have to smell ‘dog-lord’.” He heard the Fereldan in her, but even if he didn’t, there was no mistaking her armor. It was from the Hinterlands, or thereabouts, leather. He lowered his hand, and his sword, but did not move aside. She gave him a look.

“Listen,” she told him, eyes dark in the night. “I have mouths to feed. You’re new, so I’ll go easy on you, but I have six more runs to make tonight, to a number of Cavril’s associates, and every minute I’m standing here talking to you, Ser Knight, is another sovereign I could have spent feeding my sister’s babe. It’s hard enough getting by with the Kirkwallers spitting on us. If the Fereldan’s start it too…” He sighed, and stood aside. Maybe her story was complete nonsense, but she appeared genuine, and the Knight-Corporal had seen the elf and his boat before, and the story all seemed to line up. And he had met Cavril, who certainly felt that all Fereldans, himself included, were not worth the dirt they walked on. 

The woman gave him a nod, and then handed her box to the elf in the boat. 

“Good evening, Ser Knights,” she said, stepping in, and then kicking off from the dock. The Knight-Corporal waved, and then Cullen sighed and turned to him, shaking his head.

“Things like this should be recorded,” he told the other man, who nodded.

“Aye, Ser, I’ll make sure it lands on the books next time.” Cullen just turned away, heading back up the steps. He was tired, he wanted to sleep. And in the morning he was still training recruits.

***

“Dammit, Hawke, I know you’re involved in all this.” Sidonie did not look up from her drink, hunched over the table in Gamlen’s small chambers. Aveline slammed her hand down hard on the table. “If I learn you’ve been smuggling lyrium now – !”

“You what?!” The door closed and Sidonie did let her gaze slide up a moment to the entrance where Carver was standing holding a canvas sack of necessities purchased at discount from the bazaar. He lowered the sack to the ground and stared at her. “You’ve been smuggling lyrium?”

“From the Gallows itself no less. Under the Templar’s noses.” Carver went white as a sheet. And then he went red. He shook his head and turned away, unable to look at her.

“Fine. I’ll let Mother starve then,” Sidonie said simply to them both, rising and gathering her mug of piss-weak ale in her hands. 

“I can get the money!” Carver spat. “If Aveline would just push my application for the guard, I could – ”

“You know I can’t do that,” Aveline said. “I don’t have that sort of influence.” The guardsman shook her head and then glared at Hawke. “One day your trouble will catch up with you.”

“Thank you for telling me. I had not thought of that,” Hawke replied darkly, then reached to her belt and set a purse of coins atop the table. “Money from the job.” And a little skimmed off the top when she’d taken some of the lyrium for herself to sell downwind to the Coterie. The Coterie did not like her all that much, but their gold was as good as any. It had been hard, though, to hold it in her hands and not keep it for herself. It sang to her, echoing in her blood, beckoning her towards the Veil. 

She let fire dance across her fingers, desperate to feel magic flowing through her, and sighed slightly.

Until Carver wheeled on her.

“And what if they catch you?!” he spat. “What if _Meeran_ catches you?! Maker take you, Sidonie, I can’t do this anymore. Not after what it took us to get here.” He gathered up the bag and set it on the nearest shelf, shaking his head at her. The worn wrapping of his greatsword, Fereldan army issue, rose over his shoulder, but the blade itself was chipped and worn as well. It would not last much longer. 

They were both of them broken.

“Then I’ll go to prison. Unless Aveline here plans to send me to a different sort of prison for the crime of trying to feed my family?” she asked archly. The guardsman threw up her hands and turned away, storming to the door.

“You talk some sense into her,” she declared in Carver’s direction, and then slammed the door on her way out. Sidonie sighed, drinking deeply of whatever they called the piss in her mug, and bent to where Lady was watching them with worried brown eyes. 

“You can’t keep taking these risks,” Carver said angrily. “I can’t let you. I’ll…I’ll find more work. I know it’s been slow with Meeran. The jobs just haven’t been coming in – ”

“Oh they’ve been coming,” Sidonie said flatly. “Meeran hasn’t, and that’s the problem. I’m not going to bend myself over a table to get us something to eat when I can do something far less dangerous, like smuggling lyrium from the Gallows itself.” Her eyes were dark and angry. Carver stared at her.

“What?” he asked, archly. “Has he…did he…?” 

“I haven’t let him touch me,” Sidonie said. “But it wasn’t for lack of his trying.” 

“That filthy son of a whore!” Carver spat, whirling like he would storm out and find Meeran that instant. “When I get my hands on him…!” 

“Enough!” He turned around at the sharpness in Sidonie’s voice, and then sighed. “Look, I skimmed some of the lyrium and sold it down in Darktown to a couple Coterie, and I dropped a few hints we were looking for work.” He crossed his arms, but at least he was listening. “They mentioned that a couple of dwarves, Tethras, were hiring guards for an expedition into the Deep Roads. Maybe…maybe if we can find more about it, and we can get ourselves hired.”

“With the Red Iron under our belts, they’d be foolish not to at least hear us out,” he said, musingly. “What are they paying?”

“A flat rate, no cut of whatever is found. But if there’s nothing down there we still get something, right? We’ll try and negotiate a good price.” Carver looked dubious.

“And what about the darkspawn? They killed the Grey Wardens at Ostagar. Even they can’t stand against them. And you didn’t see them like I did, Sidonie. Not the horde…” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she told him quietly, considering him. And then she set down her mug. “They say the darkspawn come to the surfaces in a Blight. Maybe no one will be home?” He sighed.

“Alright. I’ll see if I can find some information. In the meantime, I want you staying clear of Meeran.” She smiled slightly.

“Worried for me, Brother?” she asked. Once, she would have called him Little Brother, how silly it was for him to be concerned. But they had long since passed the point where he was the little one. He towered over her now, all bulk and corded muscle. He might be younger, but he was not little anymore. He just gave her a look.

“I’m serious. If Mother knew…”

“Don’t tell her,” Sidonie said quietly. “Don’t say a word. We’ve only got a couple more months, and then we’re free of that bastard. Anyway, it isn’t like I blame him, really, given how very beautiful and talented and desireable I am.” He just rolled his eyes and she gave a soft smile. And then she pointed to the table. “Keep that away from Gamlen. It’s not for paying his debts.” Carver scooped the pouch from the table and nodded, closing it inside his fist. 

“He won’t touch it,” he promised. Then he sighed. “So, how was it…mingling with the Templars?” 

“Oh, delightful. Moonlight boating trips and strapping men in armor and skirts…really, nothing like it.” He chuckled and shook his head. And then he sighed. 

“Just…be careful, Sidonie. You’re…you’re the only sister I have left.” 

“Ah,” she sighed, nodding. “Wouldn’t want to take away your spare would I?” He just gave her a glare, then motioned to the bag. 

“Anyway, there’s food. It has to last us awhile. When Mother comes back from the Chantry, that’s for her.” He rose and moved towards the door.

“And where are you going?” 

“Just…someone I have to see.” She gave him a suspicious look, then let him be.

“See you in time for dinner,” she said, and he nodded, pushing open the door.

“I promise.” 

***

There was a stiff breeze that was rippling in the sails as she let the lines fly loose. In the distance, through her spyglass, she could see the rain falling on the Waking Sea to the west, and she could also make out the faint outlines of a Qunari Dreadnought, hovering in the distance. 

And to the east, when she turned, she could see _La Glorieuse_ , a triple-masted brigantine three times larger than the _Siren’s Call_. It was slow, and bulky, and the wind blew against it. 

Perfect timing.

Isabella snapped her spyglass closed and handed it down to Casivir with a grin.

“Looks like our information was right, boys,” she said to her crew. And then she looked to her First Mate. “Time to get Castillon off our backs.” She strode up the deck, thigh-high boots sturdy and salt-stained, and called to the sailors working the topsail. “Alright boys, bring her round. Brand, you’re going to want your sword for this one.”

She felt the deck move beneath her, skimming over the waves, and drew the first of her bronze-hilted knives. 

Two hundred lives had been worth the cost, but soon that debt would be repaid. All she needed was a single relic, and then her life was free.

***

Eideann twisted to look in the mirror atop the small sideboard. Beside her Leliana stood in the garb of the Chantry once again. And she smiled a little as she considered Eideann in her grey silk and red gown, Highever laurels embroided across the red fabric in silver thread. 

Fitting that she wear it again. Really it was just the only thing she had left to wear to anything formal. Alistair was in borrowed clothes. The middle of reparations was hardly the time for sewing new garments after all.

And yet the time had finally come, several weeks after the darkspawn were driven from the city, and the fires extinguished. They had waited until those who had needed to head home could wait no longer, and those who needed to join them could arrive. The ceiling of the Royal Palace had at least been rethatched, and the Landsmeet and the nobility of Ferelden, the collection of allies who could still attend, and the Chantry representatives were all there. Ready. Waiting. 

“It still looks beautiful.” Eideann glanced back to catch Leliana watching, and she sighed, brushing down the skirts.

“I will treasure it, always,” she said softly. “I wish you did not have to go.”

“You shall see me again,” Leliana replied with a smile. “But here we are. The Conquering Heroine has won the day, and now she takes her bow and exits the stage. A fine ending.” She sighed.

“You should be taking one with me,” Eideann told her softly. She could have done none of it without the support of those who had stayed at her side to help her. Each and every one of them…even Morrigan. Especially Morrigan.

“Oh my part was small,” Leliana said softly, shaking her head. “I’m happy to watch you receive the accolades. It’s quite fun.” She rose from the bed where she sat and pulled Eideann’s skirts straight with a little flounce, picky as ever. 

Eideann sighed, and turned towards a basket laying by her bed, a blanket bundled about something within. It had arrived just yesterday, a gift sent from Soldier’s Peak along with her gown, by special request.

“Speaking of taking one with you,” she said, gathering up the basket which ruffled a little with movement. “I have a gift for you.” She held it out carefully, supporting the bottom, and Leliana took it, confused but smiling. She lifted up the blanket and gave a squeal of surprise and then adoration. The basket shifted again as the tiny baby nug, wrinkled because it was still too small for its own skin, shifted into a deeper sleep. It only slept when covered. She had been lucky it had stayed as quiet as it had.

“Awww, one of those subterranean bunny-pigs!” Leliana exclaimed, and then smiled, reaching within the basket to run a finger across the tiny creature. “Aww, look at him. Come here you.” She carefully pulled it from the basket to cradle in her arms, and it snuffled into her fingers, still only a baby yet, with tiny eyes that blinked up at her. Eideann gave a soft laugh and Leliana just beamed up at her. “He’s snuffling me!” she said in delight. “Snuffle snuffle.” Her laughter was a little infectious and even Eideann had to give a soft chuckle, shaking her head.

“If I had known you wanted a nug so badly, I’d have found you one sooner,” she said with a smile. Leliana shook her head, then met her eyes.

“Thank you so much. You’ve made my day,” she declared, eyes full of joy. And then her smile slipped ever so slightly. “I shall miss you, my friend. I can’t help now but think of my vision. The Maker sent me to help you, and look what you did.” She carefully settled the nug back in its basket under the blanket and set the basket atop the bed to reach for Eideann’s hands. “It’s a miracle. It truly is.” Eideann gave her a weak smile, looking away and shaking her head. But Leliana did not reliease her hands. 

“Must you really go?” she asked softly. Leliana just gave a soft laugh.

“I need to make sure the Urn of Sacred Ashes is protected,” she said. Eideann looked up.

“Oh, I’m sure the dragon sitting on top of it will keep it safe enough for a time,” she said softly. Leliana sighed.

“I can’t think of anything more important,” she told Eideann quietly and stepped back, giving her a final one-over. “I can give something back to the entire world. It will be a grand adventure of my very own. I’m looking forward to it.” Eideann bowed her head a little and smiled, nodding.

“Then I wish you luck,” she finally said softly. Leliana smiled, then drew a deep breath, nodding to herself.

“You are ready.” Eideann took a final look in the mirror and then nodded, biting her lip slightly. She looked a lot better than she had for weeks. Some of the color was back in her face, and newly washed and primped, she seemed every inch a Queen.

Today was the coronation. It could not be delayed. The wedding was still some ways off yet, but this at least was important now. Today they were to be crowed in the Sight of the Maker before the Landsmeet and the assemblage of Ferelden, co-regents. Equal and together. 

Eideann was a little glad the wedding would need to wait. She was not eager for a massive wedding, and neither did she feel desperate to have all the nobility of Thedas in attendance. More like she knew there was enough yet to be done to make their kingdom whole again. And that shade of sadness still stood between Alistair and her, from Soldier’s Peak and the ritual done there all the way to their loss atop the tower. She loved him with all her heart, but that heart was broken, and until it was mended, until she could smile and laugh again, she did not want to bring such grief into the light. 

It was too fast to seal their marriage. And part of her silently thought perhaps he may yet put her aside. He may yet choose and different bride. 

She would give up her crown in an instant if he did. But for now there were different things to contend with. A wedding just was not yet in the cards.

So she swallowed and turned towards the door, and Leliana gathered her basket in her arms. To Eideann’s delight she intended to take the nug into the coronation. So be it. Let a nug preside over the crowning of Ferelden’s new monarchs. It was as fitting as anything else they did. 

She slipped out the side door, because tradition dictated she entered by the front entrance. Usually such a procession was done in the Chantry, but since that had burned down, the ritualistic elements had to be recreated instead in the Royal Palace. 

She walked out in the sunlight, and was touched to see the people gathered waiting for them to emerge again as King and Queen. These were the common people, the soldiers, the servants, and the elves. She stopped by each as they called for her, held out their hands towards her, awed to see her. And she reached to touch their hands, to spread the light of hope as far as she could. 

They called the light that she had seen atop the tower Cousland’s Beacon, that blast that had pierced a hole through to the stars when all the world was bathed in fire. They called her Queen already. The ceremony itself was merely a formality now. 

The Grey Wardens sent by Jader were all men and women of Ferelden birth, and Alistair had sent them on to Amaranthine for the time being, thinking that a good idea. There was enough to deal with there, but so far she had avoided being involved in such discussions, either because they kept them from her or because she had lucked out. All she knew was that one of the Grey Wardens had climbed the tower of Fort Drakon, and by the time he was done casks of Archdemon blood were being brought down, for storage there in Ferelden, and to be sent off to replenish the stocks of every Grey Warden fortress in Thedas. There were some murmurs, some wondering, at how he had managed it, but Eideann already had her own suspicions. To keep people from touching the stuff, from contaminating innocents with the Blight, and to make sure it was all collected and not wasted, there really was only one way to have done it. Blood magic, or something similar. So she said nothing and let the explanations be whatever the others wished them to be. Even now, even here, she must protect people from their own ignorance. She thought of Riordan, the pyre that had been built while she slept, and sighed.

Alistair stood before the Royal Palace gates, clad in silver armor over a red velvet tunic. At his back, a thick velvet cloak, emblazoned with the Theirin coat of arms.

They had flocked to him as much as to her, though for a different reason. He was their king, and he had shown in those weeks since the end of the Blight that he would toil among them and strive to serve as best he could. She was proud of him. She loved him. His eyes met hers across the square, and he reached out to catch her hand. She took it with a small smile, drawing to his side. At least they still had that. And he bent to kiss her cheek softly, there before their people, and she smiled, feeling the love in it. 

“I’m scared,” he whispered to her, and she gave a soft laugh.

“We faced down an Archdemon itself, and now you are afraid?” she teased. Whatever was left of Urthemiel was in the hands of scholars now, trying to work out which it was. She already knew. She had even told them. She did not need the Chantry to tell her the name of her enemy. She had known it since the moment she had read her little book.

Alistair took her arm. 

“I will be relieved when all this pomp and ceremony is done.” Her heart leapt at the sound, the voice she knew and had missed those weeks confined to the Royal Palace. Even when she had finally emerged, he had been nowhere to be found, off being useful somewhere she was not. This was the first she had seen him, heard him, since they had been atop Fort Drakon.

“Zevran…” He grinned to her, giving a nod.

“Ah, _Bella_ ,” he sighed as he always did and crossed behind her where Leliana waited with her basket-nug. “Such events are perfect opportunities for assassins,” he said, scanning the crowd. “I can’t help but expect the Crows to appear at any moment. Which would be a welcome break, mind you.” But his eyes sparkled a little as he spoke. 

“You think the Crows will still come after you?” Alistair asked and Zevran sighed. 

“Eventually,” he admitted. “With Taliesen dead, it might take them time to figure out what has happened. But they are like the tides: predictable.” He looked between them. “It does occur to me that staying in one place is only going to invite the Crows to find me that much quicker. While fun, that might eventually get…complicated.” Eideann sighed, arm linked with Alistair’s, and shook her head.

“You aren’t thinking of leaving are you?” she asked the ex-Crow softly. He just gave a soft chuckle and shook his head.

“That was the idea,” he told her quietly. “See the world, meet some people, rob a few of them blind…unless you have something different in mind?” She sighed, looking to Alistair who gave her a shrug and a sigh. And then Eideann glanced back to Zevran, reaching with her free hand for his. He took it and bent to kiss it, making a show of it. And she smiled.

“You can go,” she finally told him, “ _if_ you come back.” He grinned, wicked, over her hand and kissed it again before straightening. 

“This is true,” he told her with a smirk. “If I happen to return on occasion with a string of Crows behind me, be a good friend and kill them for me?” he asked in his most charming voice. And then sighed, smile slipping a little, like Leliana’s had done in the chambers. “Yes, I think that will work, sad as I shall be to part company. I hope fate decrees we meet again, Lady Eideann. Unless, of course, the Fereldan monarchy plans to make much use of assassins?” Eideann gave a soft laugh, and Alistair raised an eyebrow.

“I think everyone we might need killing is probably already dead. And if there’s anyone left, I’m fairly sure Eideann and I can kill them ourselves,” he finally said, sighing, but he smiled. Zevran smiled back and then reached to take his hand, and shake it with a nod of friendship.

“Care for this beautiful woman,” the elf warned. “She is worth all the treasures in Antiva, and more. If I find you have let anything happen to her…”

“Let anything happen to her? Maker’s breath, she’s more like to do _me_ harm!” Alistair said with a grin, and that was true enough. Zevran bowed away, stepping back beside Leliana, and then Eideann glanced once more back to the crowd.

And then the doors opened. It was Arl Eamon who stood before them, and Bann Teagan at his side. Eamon gave a bow of head, and Teagan gave them an encouraging smile.

“We’re ready for you now.”

The Chant of Light hung in the air, echoing from a small choir into the eaves. The Landsmeet chamber was lined with the nobility of Ferelden, who turned as Eamon and Teagan stood clear and Alistair and Eideann made their way forward, walking up the carpeted aisle towards the dais where two thrones stood. Eamon fell into step behind them, and Teagan drifted into the crowd himself.

And suddenly she was nervous too, despite all that had come before. She saw the faces, solemn and sincere, watching them as they walked the hall. And she saw the eyes of Ferelden’s Grand Cleric, soft and grey. That was the woman who had refused to let Alistair join the Grey Wardens, now presiding over his coronation. 

She felt a little chill settle over her, but Alistair reached to cover her hand in his own, and she looked to him, and found him looking back. And she drew a breath, a small smile twisting her lips.

“Together,” he murmured, for only her ears, and she gave the slightest of nods.

“Always.” 

They reached the dais, where Fergus stood atop the first step. He held in his hands a pair of swords. One was Maric’s dragonbone, the sword of kings. And the other was the Cousland blade, Duty, which glittered with blue runes. Together they glowed, one gold and one blue. Fergus bent his head, the highest rank there save for the one that would be theirs, and held forth the swords.

Alistair’s hand closed about Maric’s blade, twisting it until it was point down. And Eideann took up Duty, as she had always done. It was an old friend in her hand now. She held it point down before her, and together they climbed the steps. 

At the top, on a small altar of stone beside the Grand Cleric, lay to velvet pillows, and upon each, a crown of brilliant silverite. Gifts, Eideann knew from overhearing them discussed, ore sent from Orzammar, forged by master smiths. 

She gazed at them a moment, before looking to the Grand Cleric, who met her eyes and then gave a soft nod. And they turned then, her skirts trailing down behind her on the steps between them, Alistair’s cloak a velvet draping of crimson at his back. 

Their swords glistened in the sunlight that streamed from the windows in the newly thatched hall. The Grand Cleric stepped forward, calling for attention and silence, and the entire hall went still. Eideann could see them all watching, as the Grand Cleric intoned the words spoken since Calenhad himself had been crowned king. As the Maker and the Realm bore witness, they were proclaimed King-Regent and Queen-Regent of Ferelden. 

Together they knelt atop the steps then, before the entire kingdom, as the Grand Cleric spoke the final words to name them monarchs. She went first to Alistair, taking up his crown from its cushion and standing before him, holding it in both hands. 

It was a war-crown, a simple band, nothing extravagant or fancy. Its points were small and far between. Its only adornment lay in simple carving: an elegant knotwork pattern of Theirin mabari and the Grey Warden griffon, intertwined and barely there atop the silverite. 

The Grand Cleric settled it on his head, where it lay atop his brow, a simple circlet. They were not Orlesian after all. 

And then the Grand Cleric picked up hers, a coronet of the same silverite, the same shape and size as Alistair’s, but no solid circlet for her. It was more open, a woven pattern of vines amidst the Cousland laurels. The Grand Cleric settled it atop her head and then considered them both before turning back to the crowd. As one Alistair and Eideann rose, swords held tight in their hands, side by side. 

“King Alistair Theirin, first of his name,” the Grand Cleric intoned. “Queen Eideann Cousland-Theirin, first of her name” Eideann and Alistair both took a step forward, right to the edge of the ledge. “King and Queen of Ferelden.” 

And the Landsmeet chamber erupted into cheers.

Eideann felt her heart swell with pride, and she looked to Alistair then. He glanced back, and grinned, and then lowered Maric’s blade in his hand to do something entirely uncouth by pulling her carefully into a kiss, which just earned them more cheers. Show off. 

But she had to admit as he pulled back, that crown did suit him terribly well. She made a mental note to send her thanks to Orzammar, for all the work done on their behalf. Mayber the dwarves were not so bad after all.

After that the ceremony became far less formal. They took the steps two at a time as they fled the Landsmeet chamber to the streets, to converge with their people out in the Palace Square. There, their horses waited with handful of guards in sparkling armor who carried the Theirin standards. The horses were sturdy matched Ferelden Forders, and Eideann and Alistair mounted with ease, even in the skirts Eideann wore, and did a tour about the city, riding fast and hard, banners streaming behind them. Those crowns stayed on, even as her skirts and his cloak billowed out behind them. Yes, she really would need to thank the dwarves. 

When they returned at last the Palace, grinning ear to ear, the Landsmeet chamber had turned into a reception and everyone was there to meet them. There was wine and music – Maker, help her, they were playing Leliana’s ‘I Am the One’, would she never escape it – and all their friends and family and the nobility gathered there in that chamber.

Fergus met them first, with a deep bow, ironic just for her, and then closed her into a great hug. 

“Father would have been proud of you,” he told her. “I know I am.” She held him close, careful of her crown, and when he pulled back, he clasped Alistair’s wrist, the pair of them meeting one another’s gaze. “Take care of my sister, Your Majesty, or I’ll be having words with you.” 

Beyond him was Alfstanna, and Teagan, and Eamon, and beyond them Arl Bryland, and all of the rest, and their families were there as well, for once. Many would be leaving upon the morrow, but for now the night was theirs. 

And their friends were there too, or most of them. Wynne had yet to return home to the Circle, and Shayle was standing surveying the hall. Sten was wearing his Qunari armor with Asala as ever at his back. Leliana was showing off her nug to a few of the Chantry Sisters gathered at the far end. Zevran had slipped away, and Eideann hoped he had not gone before a proper goodbye. Only Morrigan and Oghren were absent, and neither of them expected. Oghren was away, leading a portion of their army, a trained warrior to chase down darkspawn bands. And Morrigan…well…

“I’m glad you’re here,” Alistair said softly at her side, taking her arm gently. He was almost getting good at this presentation nonsense. She smiled slightly, and he sighed. “The rest of the Grey Wardens…they’ve already sent…questions, about how it was we both managed to survive. What should I tell them.” Eideann sighed, bowing her head a little as he walked her about the chamber, giving them the privacy of movement at least.

“I don’t care what you tell them,” she finally said, giving a gentle sigh. It was he who had made that particular sacrifice. That story was for him to tell. He just laughed, mirthlessly, and sighed as well.

“That a maleficar saved you and ran off to have my demon baby? No, I think I’ll just shrug and look stupid. It’s a talent.” He too bowed his head. “Do you…know where she went?” Eideann looked to him, and he met her gaze, no ulterior motives there. And she wet her lips.

“I don’t know,” she admitted in a soft murmur. “I’m not sure I want to.” He nodded.

“I’m just concerned about that that ritual is going to cost eventually,” he sighed. And then at last he looked around and sighed. “At any rate,” he said with a small smirk, “I can’t wait to be alone with you. These formal affairs drive me insane.” 

They had not shared a bed since before the battle. For over a month. But still she could not. She just met his gaze and he gave a gentle smile, understanding. 

“I get to marry the woman I love,” he told her softly. “Even if for awhile it must wait, I figure there can’t be much better than that.” She just felt a blush tinge her cheeks, and looked away, but she squeezed his hand softly. 

And then she pulled back, giving him the smallest of curtsies and crossing to hall to join Wynne who was watching her with kindly eyes from where she stood beside Shayle, a glass of wine in her hands. 

“Your Majesty,” the elderly mage greeted at her approach. Shayle just looked her over.

“So, it survived after all. My impression that all creatures made of flesh were hopelessly squishy was premature.” Eideann just smiled and sighed.

“You’re right about most people,” she said companionably. 

“No doubt,” the golem agreed. “It has proven to me, however, that fleshiness does not mean squishness. It has made me revise my opinion of its kind, _my_ kind. I am, or was at one point, a dwarf. In fact, I may even try to become one again.” Eideann blinked, and Wynne gave a sly smile.

“Shayle has expressed a desire to go to Tevinter to look into a way to regain her mortality, and I will join her.” Eideann looked between them, then grinned.

“Then good luck,” she said and Shayle hummed softly, crystals flickering a little.

“I intend to return eventually,” the golem said simply. “Unless I decide to destroy all pidgeons everywhere. Until then, I wish it well. It… _you_ have been a fine friend.” Eideann stared up at the golem, touched beyond words, and Wynne carefully called her back.

“So, they’re calling you’re the Hero of Ferelden. My my. How does it feel?” Eideann sighed.

“It’s a little strange,” she admitted. She’s beyond lying to Wynne, or omitting the truth. It did not matter that the woman knew, and anyway she had her own strangeness to contend with. 

Wynne just gave a soft laugh.

“Oh, of that I have no doubt. But it’s not so bad, is it? A Blight defeated with the other nations barely becoming aware. Who could ask for better?” Well, Eideann could think of a few things that would make it all much better, but she held her tongue and instead nodded.

“I didn’t do it on my own.” 

_Live gloriously, my friend._

“I don’t think many heroes do,” Wynne told her quietly, and then Eideann nodded and watched as the mage was called away by Petra who was gathered with Irving and a few of the Templars, animatedly discussing something. Eideann gave a small smile to Shayle, and then drew away, seeking the solitude of the corner of the room. But even there she was no alone. Sten silently came to join her, considering the room.

“It is good,” he finally said, “to see you again, Kadan.” Eideann heard the concern in his voice, so she carefully reached to touch his arm, and he gazed at the contact a moment before looking up to meet her eyes with his own strange purple gaze. “These people call you hero, but I think I understand its meaning. The Arishok sometimes declares a qunari to be qunoran vehl, an example. Such examples are always made after their death, however. A death in service to the Qun. A living qunoran vehl would be too proud.” Eideann smiled a little and looked out across the people who were gathered about Alistair while he played at being King. 

“Nothing wrong with a little pride,” she said a little ironically. After all, this was Sten she was speaking to, master of hubris in almost all things. He smiled his little half smile.

“I would argue, had you not ended a Blight,” he told her quietly. “I suppose I should tell you…I have decided to return to my people. Your quest is done, and thus so is my reason for accompanying you.” She looked to him a moment, then sighed.

“And I was just starting to get used to you,” she told him gently. He gave a nod.

“And I to you, strangely enough,” he replied. “It must be said. You found my sword and gave me a chance to restore my honor. I owe you a great debt.” She shook her head.

“You owe me nothing.” No one owed her a thing. She had just done as she had to do, as she had always done. But he fixed her with a solemn stare, seeing through to her heart, and shook his head.

“Some debts cannot be discarded,” he said, voice soft. So she simply nodded, and looked away, and he let the moment rest. And then for a little while they just stood enjoying one another’s silence in company, and that was enough. 

The revelry lasted well into the evening, until the starlight was shining into the chamber through the windows and the lamps had to be lit. Eideann did not last too much later. She bade farewell to those she would miss the most, and then returned to the small chamber she had been occupying those last few weeks, where she carefully shed the dress, and slipped instead into a soft white shift, the same one borrowed from Alfstanna.

And she dreamed a dreamless sleep.

***

The morning light found her stirring, summoning her to wake. But after a moment she realized too that she could hear voices. She listened to the muted tones, but there was nothing to them. So she quietly pulled herself from bed and rose on bare feet, crossing the flagstones that were so cold. Angus, lying atop the bed, looked up with big brown eyes, and then flopped down beside her to follow her out as she carefully opened the door.

The voices were carrying from down the hall, where a small office had been established for all their plans and correspondence while the rest of the city was rebuilt and restored. It was Alistair she heard, and Arl Eamon, arguing between themselves. And Teagan was there as well, his voice a soft sound of reason amidst it all.

“We knew they had to have gone somewhere, but this just does not make sense.” 

“There are others who can handle the darkspawn,” Teagan said softly. “Let the Wardens in Amaranthine handle these errant bands.”

“Warring factions?” Alistair said skeptically. “No one knows the Fereldan darkspawn as much as Eideann and I do. And a handful of Wardens from Orlais will never win the trust of those people. Maker, Orlesian Wardens in Ferelden was what started all of this.”

“You have other responsibilities,” Arl Eamon said softly, and Eideann crept down the hall, shift falling to her ankles, her eyes narrowed.

“I swore an oath. And I can’t sit by while darkspawn bands wage war in the Coastlands.” Eideann froze, staring back at Angus, and then closed her eyes. “I’ll have to go. There’s nothing else for it. Someone needs to lead them. And I’m the one who gave the Arling to the Wardens. I am the one who must fix this.”

“And what of everyone else? What of your responsibilities to the rest of the kingdom? We need to rebuild. Do not forget that Amaranthine was the seat of Rendon Howe, and most of those Banns were loyal to him. Best perhaps to let the darkspawn cull that lot for you.” 

“I hope,” Eideann said, stepping forward, eyes narrowed on Eamon, “that you are not suggesting we let the darkspawn massacre Amaranthine simply because the Howes once reigned there. Should we let Gwaren burn too?” Her eyes fell to Alistair. “What is going on?”

“Eideann,” he said slowly. “You should be resting. You’ve really done enough. I told you…I can manage…”

“Alistair Theirin.” He froze at the full use of his name from her. And then he drew a breath. She sighed. “I am the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. You will tell me what is going on.” 

“Darkspawn are harrying the lands to the north through Amaranthine and the eastern Coastlands. Our attempts to route them have been unsuccessful. Word from Vigil’s Keep where the Wardens are stationed say the people are being…uncooperative…and that they worry the darkspawn have a nest somewhere nearby.” Eideann considered the implications, and then she had to sit down in one of the chairs before the table where they were pouring over maps. Their maps of the Deep Roads were certainly incomplete at best. And the attack on Soldier’s Peak, not too far west of Amaranthine, was proof enough for her that perhaps the darkspawn did have a hive somewhere within those eastern reaches. She had cleared to Cadash Thaig, but no further. Past that…

“What else?” Alistair hesitated, then gave in under her cool stare. 

“There have been reports of darkspawn fighting darkspawn. Factions. Something seems to be leading them. Instead of disappearing back into the Deep Roads to hunt down a new Archdemon, they’re bickering near the surface, or even on the surface. None of it makes sense.” Eideann considered him a moment, and then he shook his head.

“I’ll go,” she finally said.

“Eideann, no. You can’t expect me to let you go chasing darkspawn again only a few short weeks after you battled a fucking Archdemon!” 

“I can and I do. _I_ am the Warden-Commmander.” 

“Let me go. I will do it. You can sort out all this nonsense here. You’re the political one.” Eideann just shook her head.

“That’s precisely why _you_ must stay, to learn it, and to prove to them you can still lead without me.” She glanced to Arl Eamon a moment, gaze dark. “There is another reason as well. Our reign rests on the support of the Freeholders, the Banns, and the Arls. We must do everything we can to win that support.” She looked to the map a moment, then back to Alistair. “Amaranthine will never support us so long as they believe I am some powerhungry Cousland who has massacred another Howe and stolen the throne. Until I go and fight for them, bleed for them, they cannot be won over.” 

“I could still be the one to do that,” he argued, leaning over the table, hands propping him up. She glared back.

“You are not the one they hate.”

“All the more reason.” She shook her head.

“Do you think that it would change their opinion of me if you went in my stead? I have to win them myself. Their qualms are not with you. And that will be a viper’s nest of political nonsense far worse than anything you find here,” she told him seriously. “No, it must be me. And there is another thing.” She grimaced. “You may not have realized it, but in gifting an Arling to the Grey Wardens, you have named a new Arl. And that Arl is the leader of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. You’ve made me an Arlessa.” She grimaced. “Amaranthine is a vassal of the Teyrnir of Highever. There is precedent for me to serve as Arlessa, if need be. I don’t like the idea, and I hope to the Maker it is only a temporary title, but for the time being, that is the situation. I must go. It must be me.” He just gave her a despairing look.

“If I’d known…” Eideann’s gaze slipped to Eamon and she sighed.

“Yes, well, you did not know,” she replied quietly, giving Eamon a pointed look. Best to let him know now she would not let his politicking continue. Best also to let him know she would not sacrifice all of Amaranthine just because of Rendon Howe. She was not a monster like Arl Howe had been. 

“It isn’t safe,” Alistair finally said, and she looked up, eyes soft.

“Ah, love, when have we ever been safe?” she asked him quietly. “If things were normal, we’d never have met.” And he sighed. A flicker of darkness stole a piece of her soul and she dropped her gaze. “There is another reason. I need to be out there. I need to be doing something. If I stay here any longer, I’ll go mad. I can’t…I need to take the time to think, to act, to do something other than sit in the middle of my despair. I need some sense of normalcy, and as horribly twisted as it is to admit it, this…fighting darkspawn…that has become normal.” She carefully rose, reaching for his hand. “Tomorrow, Fergus rides for Highever, and Alfstanna goes with him. They will take it back. I will ride with them, at least part the way, and take any recruits we may find to Vigil’s Keep.” He met her eyes, concern in molten gold, and she met them back, Cousland Blue burning with a fire she thought she had lost. “I will not take no for an answer. This is my duty. And I am still a Cousland.” 

So at last he nodded, and she smiled slightly, and then she turned away.

In the morning they rode for Amaranthine, back into danger again. She had so much to pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END DANCES IN DARKNESS BOOK 4: HERO**   
>  [Dances in Darkness Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/241561)   
>  [Dances in Darkness - Book 5: Amaranthine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4392314/chapters/9971561)   
> 


End file.
